


sharp teeth

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Breeding, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-07-05 14:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15865392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: What happened?” Tony rasps, coughing slightly. The woman briefly leans over him to pour him a glass of water; Tony sniffs, surreptitious. Alpha.“Gone,” the woman says, blisteringly efficient, signing the sheet in front of her. “Fifty percent of all life, give or take.” She frowns, flips through Tony’s file. “Your bloodwork says you’re omega.”Tony shakes his head, distracted. “I don’t identify,” he says, unable to comprehend the scale. “I’ve always been male-presenting. I – don’t understand, is it fifty percent of humans, or fifty percent of – ““You have to, now,” the woman says pointedly, stamping his file in red. “It’s the law.”Otherwise known as, what the world would do if 50% of it's population disappeared overnight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> I love A/B/O AUs. They're a way of twisting societal norms and exploring them. And I just can't shake the idea that, humans being humans, in _any_ universe, would let 50% of the population just dip off overnight and not do anything about it.
> 
> **Warnings:**
> 
> There is no rape in this chapter, but threat of it, and molesting. Tony is unable to take his 'suppressants', which lead to bodily changes that may be triggering in line with body dysmorphia. If that's a problem, please don't read.
> 
> However, there will be threat of sexual violence throughout this story, as this is the new, bizarre nature of the universe I've created. Any overt violence will be tagged at the beginning of that chapter, but still, if that is a problem, do not read.
> 
> This is essentially how I feel infinity war would be resolved in an A/B/O universe. For that reason, the actual 'resolving' part of the plot will be a bit deus ex machina-y. Mainly because I would rather explore the universe and ramifications of just fuckn snapping 50% of the world out of existence.

He’s going to fucking crash.  
   
He prepares himself for it. Loosens every muscle in his body. The radar shows him coming down somewhere in Iowa, a nice cornfield. The shield Nebula fixed before she left should protect him from the worst of the damage; if not, he’s dead. At least it will be quick.  
   
He thinks, _this will hurt._ He thinks, _I hope they find me._ He thinks, _I hope I’m not alone._  
   
Just before the moment of impact, the ground rushing up to meet him, Tony remembers Planet of the Apes, the original. That last scene, with the statue of liberty stuck in the sand.

 

Awareness comes in drips.

He knows someone is washing him wish a sponge. Not creepy, just clinical. People are talking, low voices, professional. _There there,_ someone says, fluffing the pillow beneath his head. A sharp pain in his arm, a tugging, a tickle. _IV._ And then he’s falling back under.  
   
“ … of kin?” He hears someone saying. And then a response: “No. All gone. He has the other one, Rhodes, as an emergency contact.”  
   
“That’ll do,” the voice says, weary. “He’s lucky.”  
   
Tony relaxes, dozing, floating. _Hospital,_ he realises. He doesn’t really know what to think, _all gone,_ but Rhodey is here, they say. Rhodey is still alive. And Earth still has doctors, and nurses, and bureaucracy. Which means – which means it’s not that bad. Which means there might be hope.  
   
And Tony fades away again.  
   
When he comes to, he realises his arm is in a sling. A bandage, above his eye. So he must have been hurt in the crash, thrown about a bit, but nothing more. Great.  
   
“I need to see Steve,” he slurs to a nurse, who plumps his pillow, ignores him. “I need to see Steve Rogers.”  
   
The nurse frowns at him, says something, but it’s like hearing through a straw. Her words are far away, tinny, through the lens of a backwards telescope. He falls asleep.  
   
The next time he wakes, life is clearer.  
   
A hospital room. A jug of water by his bedside. His arm in a sling. And there’s a woman, scratching a pen against a clipboard.  
   
“How long?” Tony croaks.  
   
“Since you got here?” She briefly looks up, then back to her work. “About a week.”  
   
“No. How… long.”  
   
Her lips purse. “About five months.” A beat; “I’m sure you tried everything you could to stop him,” she adds, gently.  
   
“What happened?” Tony rasps, coughing slightly. The woman briefly leans over him to pour him a glass of water; Tony sniffs, surreptitious. _Alpha._  
   
“Gone,” the woman says, blisteringly efficient, signing the sheet in front of her. “Fifty percent of all life, give or take.” She frowns, flips through Tony’s file. “Your bloodwork says you’re omega.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, distracted. “I don’t identify,” he says, unable to comprehend the scale. “I’ve always been male-presenting. I – don’t understand, is it fifty percent of humans, or fifty percent of – “  
   
“You have to, now,” the woman says pointedly, stamping his file in red. “It’s the law.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony says, irritated, “great. But you’re not explaining, I have a right to know. I – Steve Rogers. I have a plan, it’s important. I need to see Steve Rogers – “  
   
The woman looks up at him. “The Captain? That can be arranged.”  
   
Tony relaxes. “Thank you,” he says, earnestly. “That’s all, okay? I just need to see him.” They’re listening to him, thank fuck.  
   
“You use the implant?” The woman continues.  
   
“What?” Tony is getting whiplash. _Fifty percent of all life is gone. Also, do you have regular heats?_ “The – yes, yeah. I always have. Since I was sixteen. Could I get a phone, or – “  
   
“Just one moment, Mr Stark,” the woman says, flashing him a short smile. “Your medical records are lacking.”  
   
“I’ve always identified male,” Tony says again, getting impatient, “that’s all my last doctor needed to know, just put that.”  
   
“We need to know more now,” the woman says apologetically, “it’s new policy, health and safety. We lost so much data during The Dust, it’s important we rebuild. A nurse will come through shortly to do a basic check-up, height, weight, blood pressure. Nothing to worry about. As non-invasive as possible.”  
   
“What are you?” Tony asks. “Aren’t you a nurse?”  
   
“Oh no,” the woman smiles, “I work with the government. I’ll talk to my superior about getting you to your Captain.”  
   
His Captain. Tony frowns. “What department did you say you worked for, again?”  
   
“I didn’t,” the woman says, standing. “It’s new. Reproduction Bureau.” She hands him a card with her name -- _Sally Smith_ (clearly fake) – an address for somewhere in DC, the tagline _Rebuilding the Future._  
   
Tony frowns at it, folds it into sling. “Great,” he says, unenthusiastically. “God Bless America.”  
   
“That’s the spirit, Tony,” the woman says, chirpy.  
   
The next nurse isn’t so passionate. She takes Tony’s height, his weight, purses her lips disapprovingly. “You’re under our guidelines for your age and breed,” she says.  
   
Tony ignores her. He’s perfectly trim, thanks, for your average American male. “I’ll manage,” he says, impatient. He lets her take more blood, a couple of strands of hair. She frowns at the healed, scabby line in his belly, but doesn’t mention it.  
   
“Your implant is due for a replacement,” she says, “would you like me to do it now?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Sure,” he says, “why not?” You’re supposed to replace it every six months – she’s right, he definitely is due, and the last thing he needs is a surprise heat. He sighs, lets her numb his arm, quickly dispatch of the current hormone dampener and slide the new one in.  
   
“What?” Tony says, drowsily, “no candy? Not even for being a good boy?”  
   
She slaps a ball of cotton wool onto the pinprick wound and tapes it over, hands him a carton of juice. “For your blood sugar,” she says dismissively.  
   
Alone, Tony settles back into the soft bed. He digs the fingers of his good arm into his palm; he blinks up at the ceiling; he hums, and bites his tongue, and does everything he can to avoid sleep.  
   
   
Still, sleep comes.  
   
In the dream, Tony is lying in his hospital bed. He reaches to drink a glass of water, and it turns to dust under his fingers.  
   
In the dream, he’s so thirsty. He leaves the bed, IV trailing behind him. Touches the door-handle, and its crumbles beneath his fingers. Places his palm on the glass of a vending machine, watches it disappear. He turns on a faucet, and nothing comes out, bone dry, desert sand, dust.  
   
   
The woman reminds him of Coulson, in a way. Efficient, all business. A week after Tony arrives, she tells him quarantine is up. He’s free to go. No more space dust, and James Rhodes it waiting for him.  
   
Tony is relieved. He’s not happy – he’s never happy, these days – but this means at the very least he can go _home._ He can take stock. He can mourn. He can put his plan in motion from the comfort of his own lab, with nothing to fear.  
   
Like a lamb to slaughter. They let him dress up in normal clothes, because they fear what he might do on the outside, in those brief moments before the catch him. They want him to think he’s going home, and everything is fine. The woman, smiling, holds open his door, waves him into the hallway. “After you, Mr Stark,” she says briskly.  
   
The hospital is more empty than it had sounded when Tony first woke up, but then he reasons there are suddenly a lot less patients. He can spy the outside through the glass doors and – it’s fall, which he expected. But it’s not – right.  
   
It’s not right.  
   
“Wait,” Tony says, halting. “Where’s Rhodey?”  
   
“Just this way, Tony,” the woman is saying pleasantly, shepherding him through the revolving doors.  
   
There are police outside. No – military. A helicopter flying overhead, soldiers armed to the teeth. “What the hell is going on?” Tony protests, stopping in front of the door. “Hold on, this isn’t – where is he? James Rhodes, you said – “  
   
Two soldiers pull open the back of a waiting van with blacked out windows. “Just through there, Tony,” the woman says, at his back. “Come on, now. We don’t want to cause a fuss.”  
   
“What the fuck? I’m not going anywhere with you people, are you crazy? I – hey! Get your hands off of me! Get them off! Do you know who the fuck I am? Don’t you understand I can _fix_ this? Get off me, get the fuck – “  
   
Two soldiers are goose-stepping him to the van, and it’s cold. Tony’s head is covered in a bag, his hands cuffed behind him. “Wait,” he’s screaming, “you fucking idiots, I can help! I can fucking help – “  
   
And then the doors are closed.  
   
   
They’ve drugged him with something.  
   
It tempers his panic, locks it away. He _wants_ to panic, he’s aware he should be; he just can’t reach it. Instead, he can only sit, slack-jawed, cuffed to a chair in an interrogation room with a one-way mirror.  
   
There’s a man in front of him. Salt-and-pepper hair, military suit. Brass. Looks high up, but Tony doesn’t recognise him. “I…” he tries, words slow, slurred. “I want to speak to Ross. General Ross. We have an arrangement.”  
   
“Ross is gone,” the man says, copying something a tablet onto a piece of paper, not looking up. “You talk to me, now.”  
   
Tony’s head spins. He tries to shake it, to clarify his thoughts. “The snap,” Tony stresses, enunciating. “I can fix it. Me. Only I can fix it.”  
   
The man looks up, smiles sympathetically, nods. “Sure, Tony. I’m sure you can.” Then, he goes back to writing.  
   
Tony snaps his wrist against the cuff, grunts with frustration. “You don’t understand,” he’s saying, “Strange – he gave up the time stone – he saw, this was the only way – “  
   
“You want to help?” The man asks, abruptly. He caps his pen, folds his arms.  
   
Tony blinks. “Yes,” he slurs, “yes! I – I can help. I was working on something before, I didn’t even think about it, but now it’s obvious. If I could just talk to Steve Rogers – “  
   
“Maybe you can talk to Steve Rogers,” the man agrees. “Maybe, you have to work with us first. A little bit of give and take, Tony, how about that?”  
   
Tony licks his lips. They’re dry. “Work with you?” He asks, feeling himself listing to the side.  
   
The man’s smile is cold. “Introductions,” he says. “You can call me Standing.”  
   
“You’re military?” Tony asks, suspicious, eyes narrowed. “I’m not building you anything.”  
   
Standing laughs. “I used to be,” he says, “and no, we don’t want you to build us anything, Tony.”  
   
“Good,” he says, “then you should let me go.”  
   
Standing examines him, seems to take him in. “Do you have any idea why you’re here today, Tony?”  
   
“Because you think I’m going to help you,” Tony grunts, now pulling harder on the cuff. “You think you’re going to get your way.”  
   
“Stop that,” Standing says, sharply. “You’re going to hurt your wrist.”  
   
Bizarrely, Tony… stops. He frowns, blinks. Stares at the cuff, his bleeding skin. Then at Standing. “What did you say to me?”  
   
“I said, stop that,” Standing repeats, this time more gentle. “You don’t need to break another arm.”  
   
It’s like a muscle memory. Tony remembers his dad, snapping at him. Swatting the back of his head. _Stop that,_ he’d say, and Tony would just – stop. “You’ve drugged me,” he accuses.  
   
“We have,” Standing agrees. “Your file says you are prone to anxiety and extended bouts of paranoia. We just want to make this easier for you.”  
   
“Paranoia?” Tony laughs, maybe more than he should. “Because I think this situation is fucking crazy? That doesn’t make me paranoid, it makes me _rational._ I flew a spaceship into fucking _Iowa – “_  
   
“Yes, you did. It was very well done.”  
   
“I – I was up there, don’t you get it? I was toe-to-toe with Thanos himself – “  
   
Standing’s face hardens. “Tony,” he says, sternly, “we don’t use that name. It’s offensive. He killed many people, we prefer the term ‘Titan’ – “  
   
“Fine, fucking ‘T-who-shall-not-be-named’, I _know_ he killed people, I was _there._ I – fought him, I… I watched him…”  
   
Tony trails off. “Be that as it may,” Standing says, “there’s no one to verify your story. And even if it was true, it doesn’t really change anything, seeing as the Titan still killed half of our population, and you weren’t able to stop him.” A beat. “Not that we blame you, by the way,” he adds. “You’re not under arrest, or anything like that.”  
   
“He didn’t kill half _our_ population,” Tony explains, wanting to spit but not being able to reach for anger, “he killed half of _everything._ The universe. This is bigger than us, bigger than Earth, certainly bigger than the fucking US of A – “  
   
“It’s interesting you mention that,” Standing says, calmly. “You say you want to help.”  
   
“You’re not _letting_ me help!”  
   
Standing sighs. “Tony,” he begins, “you – “  
   
“Mr Stark.”  
   
“Pardon?”  
   
“You don’t know me. You call me Mr Stark.”  
   
Standing smiles. “I think I want to call you Tony, if you don’t mind. As I was saying, you’ve done a fine job, at many things. You’re a clever boy. But, you didn’t swing it, did you? Couldn’t quite manage it. And now, 3.5 billion people are dead.”  
   
“I tried,” Tony says, listless, dull. “I did my best.”  
   
“I know you did,” Standing says, sympathetically. “And we’ll see you well rewarded, trust me on that. We’re going to make sure everyone knows you’re a hero.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Then – I don’t understand.”  
   
Standing settles back in his chair, folds his hands on his belly. “3.5 billion people are dead, Tony.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tony croaks.  
   
“No no, none of that,” Standing soothes. “Are you feeling a little emotional, Tony? Here.”  
   
Standing reaches into his pocket, takes out a pack of tissues, passes one to Tony, who awkwardly takes it with his casted arm, blotting his eyes. Standing watches him, closely, then continues. “It’s important we rebuild,” he continues. “More than rebuild, in fact – repopulate.”  
   
Tony’s brain feels fuzzy. He can’t understand why he’s crying – irrational, bizarre. “That’s not the point,” he tries again, “I can undo it all. I could fix it, bring everyone back.”  
   
“Sure,” Standing says, “but in case you can’t.”  
   
“In case I can’t – what?”  
   
Standing leans forward a little, now. “You’re omega,” he says.  
   
“That’s none of your business,” Tony slurs, holding the scrunched up tissue in his hand.  
   
“No,” Standing disagrees, “see, it is very much my business. In fact, it’s everyone’s business these days. Do you know why?”  
   
Tony still doesn’t understand. He looks around the room, at the one-way mirror. “Are people watching us?” He asks.  
   
“Tony,” Standing says, authoritatively, clicking his fingers, and Tony’s head snaps back to him. “That’s it. Good boy. Look at me, please.”  
   
 _Good boy?!_  
   
“We’ve started a programme,” Standing continues. “Omegas stand at about 7% of the population. There’s about eleven million of you left, Tony. Eleven million walking wombs.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “No,” he says, “you don’t understand. I don’t identify, I’ve always presented as male. That’s my right, that’s my human right, and you can’t – “  
   
“No,” Standing says, softly. “It _was_ your right. Not anymore. The Regeneration and Reproductive bill means all omegas have to present as omega.”  
   
Tony goes for a different tact. He softens, tips his head, laughs. Or tries to. He’s drugged enough he thinks it sounds like a hysterical giggle. “Standing,” he says, “c’mon now. What do you want me to say?”  
   
“To listen. We’re trialling federal schemes in California and Nevada. It’s only been five months, but we’re having great success. Women have been signing up – you get $25,000 for the first baby, $50,000 for the second, and _paid_ maternity. You see, Tony,” Standing says, leaning close while Tony instinctively recoils back, “we’re at a new ground zero. How do you think we got ahead, all those years ago, hmm? Our birth-rate’s been falling for years, but do you know whose hasn’t? China’s. India’s. All of Africa.  
   
“What do you think happens, Tony, ten years down the line? Twenty? When the West isn’t breeding, and everywhere else is? Even with all our resources, people don’t want to have kids. We’re selfish. This generation, they like their own space, they like to travel, they like good food. They don’t want _kids._ So we’re going to fall behind. And then some more. And in one generation, two, we simply won’t have numbers. And what happens then, Tony? I’ll tell you: it’s the same thing that happened to the Native Americans. The same thing that happened to the Aboriginals. The same thing that happened to the Aztec, all those years ago. Are you understanding?”  
   
Tony opens his mouth, closes it. “I,” he starts, “I – I don’t sign up. I don’t want to sign up.”  
   
Standing folds his hands on the table. “I haven’t finished,” he says, patiently, “don’t interrupt me, Tony.”  
   
Tony shuts up. Just like that.  
   
“Your kind,” he continues, “sorry – I mean, your _breed._ For a long time, we’ve let you go by, doing what you want. Treating you like you’re beta, hell, like you’re _alpha._ But the truth is, you’re not. When humanity was just starting out – how’d we do it? Well, we did it with people like you. Omegas. Who can keep breeding till their fifty, and always birth healthy babies. Admit it, Tony: it’s what you’re _here_ for. It’s your time to shine. Letting you all dress up in suits and heels was fine when we weren’t at crisis point, but Tony, these are the end times. Unless we do something about it.”  
   
“I,” Tony says, “I, I.”  
   
“Shh,” Standing soothes. “We’re not going to make this hard. You’re going to listen to me, understand? You’ve been _so_ good so far. You see? You’ve only have your suppressor out for a few days and you’re already listening.”  
   
“They… just replaced it.”  
   
“No, Tony,” Standing says gently. “We took it out. No more suppressing, okay? That’s gone, now. You’re _omega._ You aren’t an alpha man, a beta man. You are _omega,_ and it’s time you started acting like one.”  
   
“I have friends. I have people who – they won’t – you can’t – “  
   
“Stop talking,” Standing says, sharply.  
   
Tony stops talking.  
   
“Now,” Standing continues, “as I was saying. We have an easy way to do this, and a hard way. The easy way is, you sign up, here.” He pushes the sheet of paper from earlier across the table. “We match you up with one of our prime alphas. It will be very comfortable, very discreet. You’ll be released, of course, and you can do whatever the hell you want to do. You’ll be a free ma – whoops,” Standing laughs. “How stupid of me. A free omega. We’ll give you a choice, Tony, you can keep the child, raise it as your own, or we can take it off your hands. No harm, no foul.”  
   
“I don’t want,” Tony begins.  
   
Standing raises a hand, silences him. “You’ll be a figurehead. Because you used to be businessman, you used to fly that suit. Well, now you’re going to show omegas what they need to do to help their country. What they need to sacrifice.”  
   
“And if they don’t?” Tony asks.  
   
“Then, there’s the hard way,” Standing says, looking sad. “We’ll have impregnate you here, Tony. Along with the others of good breeding stock. And it’ll be a felony, you see, all omegas will need to be tagged. We can’t risk any of you going missing, can we? Certainly not. Especially when you’re about to become the world’s most sought-after commodity.”  
   
Oil, we now have too much of. Food. Water. Energy. Everything that was once scarce just became bountiful. A reversal. There’s one thing that is now in short supply.  
   
People.  
   
“Pay them. The scheme. Like you have for the beta women, the alpha women.”  
   
Standing shrugs. “Women aren’t like you, Tony. Their babies die, they’re born weak, sick. Disabled. 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, do you know that, Tony? Do you know what the figure is for omegas?”  
   
Tony doesn’t respond, so Standing keeps going. “3%,” he says, triumphantly. “This is a boon. The perfect opportunity to birth a generation of healthy, fit children. Alpha and omega, the way God intended.”  
   
“That’s – eugenics,” Tony manages, head splitting. “HYDRA tried. The Nazis tried. Doesn’t work, won’t work.”  
   
“But we’ve already got a head start,” Standing says, softly. “What do you say, Tony. Are you in?” He pushes the sheet in Tony’s direction. “This is the easiest way,” he nods. “Do right by your country, Tony.”  
   
“This is bigger than my country. This is about the whole universe.”  
   
Standing sighs, in a way that sounds long-suffering, patronising. “Okay, Tony,” he says. “We’ll do it the hard way.”  
   
   
They don’t do anything, not straight away. First, they have to fatten him up, like a prize piece of pork.  
   
Some omegas, they don’t suppress. Which is fine, Tony always thought. He thinks they’re crazy, sure, but – more power to them. Some people don’t mind the heats, and the crazy hormonal janky-ness, and the, you know, _fertility._ Some people, apparently, like being treated like a child all their life. Some people like that. Tony doesn’t, but – some people.  
   
Most people don’t even _know_ Tony is omega. It’s not a secret, it’s a matter of public record. Tony’s father was alpha, his mother omega, so of course he had to be either/or, and it’s not like he has a knot to prove the former. It’s never come up. It’s never really been an issue. Once in a while, he’ll get an off-colour comment from a lecherous freak. Occasionally, he’ll get threatening letters from religious bizarros who think he should be kept naked and on his knees like the rest of his breed.  
   
Still, for the most part, it’s no one’s business but Tony’s what he chooses to be. Omegas, if they don’t want to be omega, they don’t have to be. Since the implant became widespread, why would they be? It’s his choice. That’s how Tony was raised. He was raised to believe it was a _choice._  
   
“You can’t take them away!” Tony screams at the padded door of his cell. “You can’t fucking do that! You can’t just – “ he kicks the door in frustration, “you can’t take them away!”  
   
Tony knows what will happen. He knows the drill. You’re given the lowdown every six months when you see your doctor. Should you choose to remove the implant, the following will occur:  
   
Your heats will start. There’s no fixed timeline, but without anything to prevent them, they _will_ start. And you _will_ have to deal with them.  
   
Your scent will return, harsher, thicker. Your breed will be identifiable to alphas from your smell alone. Everything, from your moods to your bodily functions, will be readable, scentable, and there’s nothing you can do to stop other’s from knowing exactly what you are.  
   
Hormones. Oh joy of joy. The closer you get to your heat, the more unpredictable your moods become. You’ll be more susceptible to alpha pheromones, to their moods, to their very voice. Hence why, when Standing says jump, Tony body just asks ‘how high?’, no matter how much Tony’s brain protests.  
   
Pregnancy. What more needs to be said? Your body ceases to belong to you.  
   
And while your body ceases to belong to you, it stops resembling you, too. Your hips will widen, you’ll put on some weight. Lose muscle. If you have a beard, there’s a good chance it’ll stop growing. If, by sheer bad luck, you find yourself knocked up, you can expect your chest to suddenly grow a nice set of tits. Which is great if you’re an alpha, and like that kind that of thing.  
   
Tony thinks they’re drugging his food. Speeding the whole process up. So he stops eating.  
   
Standing says, you have to eat. Tony says, you have to let me go. I need to see Steve Rogers. I know how I can reverse the snap.  
   
They drug him and strap him to a gurney as punishment. They drug him, and drug him, and drug him, until the ceiling turns into stars, and the stars turn into dust, and everything falls into a void, and Tony floats in the void. And while he floats in the void, terrified, screaming, Standing strokes his hair.  
   
“You have to understand,” he’s saying tiredly, his disembodied head floating somewhere in the dark, amongst crumbled bodies, the ash that was once Tony’s friends, “it’s better this way, son. We don’t want to reverse it. This is a chance to do over. Even if you could, we wouldn’t _let_ you.”  
   
After that, he learns his lesson. When they bring him food, he eats it.  
   
   
In between this, he dreams.  
   
It’s always dust. In the worst dreams, he’s suffocated by it. The dust from Peter’s body clogging his nose, his throat, his ears, his eyes. Peter’s brain and skin and blood, ash in his mouth. It’s so disturbing, so visceral, that he’s taken to screaming himself awake.  
   
The psychotic drugs they sometimes give him to make him pliant aren’t helping.  
   
Sometimes, Standing visits him. He brings books, newspapers, tales from the world outside, a world Tony hasn’t seen in almost nine months. The five months it took him to come home, and these four months, captive in the world’s most high-tech basement. “It’s not too late,” Standing will tell him, casually. “You can still sign up. I’ll even let you choose the alpha. What about Rogers? He’s a fine young man. Wouldn’t you like to carry his child?”  
   
The truth is, what once seemed repulsive increasingly seems like a good deal. What with the dreams of eating the dusty remains of young boys and new-found acquaintances, what would be so hard about being pregnant? Standing is probably right; they _do_ need to rebuild, and Tony does come from good stock. And if they let him go, he could find Steve, he could put his plan in motion.  
   
Of course, they’d probably have to rape him to do it. Which isn’t ideal.  
   
Mostly, when Standing visits, he makes pleasant small-talk, which Tony grudgingly reciprocates. He’ll ask how he’s feeling, if he’s had a change of heart. If he has any pain, if there’s anything he’d like. If Tony is good, and talks back, he tends to get what he wants; an extra duvet, a hoodie, a couple of historical biographies to keep him busy.  
   
Today, Standing is more brisk. “Tony,” he says, hands behind his back, almost parade rest, examining the walls of Tony’s cell. He had asked for some tape to plaster schematics on the wall; Standing seems to find them funny. He smirks.  
   
Tony, sitting on his bed, folds his book. “You’re later than usual.”  
   
“Yes,” Standing says, looking down at his feet, and then up again. He turns. “Take off your shirt.”  
   
Tony stares at him, for a long while. Standing doesn’t look away. They’re locked there, together, in stalemate, a stand-off. “My shirt?” Tony repeats after some time, coolly.  
   
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” Standing says, with a dry smile.  
   
“I heard you.”  
   
“Good. So, take it off.”  
   
Tony rolls his shoulder, cracks his neck. Shuffles forward so he’s sitting on the side of the bed. Three months ago, this wouldn’t have meant anything. Three months ago, he was a different person.  
   
He lifts his shirt from the bottom, pulls it up and over his head. It’s blue, with a white vest underneath, which he grapples with, discarding it to the side. He tries not to hide, even though he wants to. Even though Standing suddenly scents like something other than he usual, military neutral.  
   
“Oh my,” Standing says, with a sudden intake of breath. “Look at you. You have an omega’s body, now.”  
   
That doesn’t mean much. Just that what was once muscled chest is now softer, his breasts slightly swollen, his nipples thicker, wider. Enough that you wouldn’t notice under a baggy prison shirt. But like this, up close…  
   
Standing _is_ close, suddenly. He standing, his knees practically brushing Tony’s, his hands still clasped behind his back like if he let go, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from touching. “And how do the feel?” He asks, clearing his throat. “Tender, or…?”  
   
“Pretty tender, yeah,” Tony says dryly. His new body doesn’t disgust him – it’s the body he was born into, after all. It doesn’t feel unnatural so much as irritating, after all that time in the neat package of overt masculinity.  
   
“Get up,” Standing says. When Tony doesn’t move, he repeats his request, this time sharper, with more alpha bite. “I said, _get up.”_  
   
Tony does, his feet moving of their own accord. “Excellent,” Standing says, slightly breathless, pupils wide. He reaches out with one hand, roughly cups the left side of Tony’s chest. “Does this hurt?” He asks.  
   
Tony shakes his head, wordless.  
   
“What about this?” He rolls a fat nipple between his forefinger and thumb. Tugs. Tony arches his back, slightly, squeezes shut his eyes. He thinks of… Thanos. Yes. He thinks of a cold knife, sliding between his ribs and his guts. The sheer pain of it. Suddenly, the unwelcome arousal doesn’t seem so present.  
   
Standing pulls, tighter. “I asked you a question,” he says, gently, breath tickling Tony’s ear. “Does it hurt?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. Standing is rubbing his thumb over his nipple, again and again.  
   
“No,” Standing agrees, “it doesn’t _hurt_ , does it?” He releases him, orders Tony to turn around. Clinically, he pulls down his sweatpants so he stands in his military-regulation briefs, presses one hand briefly to the centre of Tony’s ass. “Wet,” he says, proudly. “Look at that. Who would have thought you had it in you?”  
   
“Can I pull up my pants now?” Tony asks, monotonous.  
  
Standing steps back, waves a hand. “Go ahead,” he says. Tony’s chest is throbbing  
   
“I would wager you’re almost ready,” Standing tells him, voice forcedly casual, trying to hide lust. Tony knows the scent; when he was fifteen, and had his first pre-heat, Obie had had the same tone, the same smell. Paternal, caring, and yet you know they’re picturing you half-hard and soaking, pants around your ankles. “I’ve found you a good alpha, Tony. I’m sure he’ll be gentle. You might even enjoy it.”  
   
Tony closes his eyes. He thinks of – Quill. Visceral rage, and a crumbled moon raining down on his head. He thinks of nanites, he thinks of snapping Standing’s neck. He thinks he wouldn’t be able to even if he tried – without the suppressant, he’s weaker. More flabby. Petite.  
   
“Tony,” Standing is saying, close, hands in his pockets. “C’mon now, son. It doesn’t have to be like this.”  
   
Tony drags his eyes upwards. “You’re not listening to me,” he says, quietly. “You’re dealing with – babies, and domestic population crisis, while the whole universe burns. This is _bigger_ than me, and the one measly kid I squeeze out. It’s bigger than the USA being on top, it’s bigger than _earth_ being on top. There are billions – trillions – of lifeforms out there who need help, who I can save – “  
   
Standing chuckles, scuffs his shoe. “Oh no, Tony,” he says, “no, no, no, it won’t be one measly kid, as you say. You don’t stop at one. You’ll have as many as it takes, understand?”  
   
Tony feels like he’s caught on repeat, a record scratch. “I don’t care,” he lies, “I don’t care how many you want me to have. Don’t you understand it doesn’t _mean_ anything? It’s pointless, it’s a waste of fucking time – “  
   
Standing’s arm shoots out, his fingers gripping Tony by the throat, under his chin. He freezes, his hand instinctively grasping at his wrist, trying to halt their squeeze. “Now,” Standing says, calmly, “you listen to me, _son.”_  
   
He’s not holding hard enough to choke. Enough to warn. So Tony tries to stagger his breathing, his panting breath, eyes wild. “I’ve explained this to you, Tony. I’ve tried to make you see. But you’re a stubborn bitch, aren’t you? A regular little omega. You just don’t understand.” Standing snorts. “Maybe that’s what happens,” he hazards, “when we take you off suppressants. When we stop you pretending to be beta, when all your little omega hormones and pheromones settle back into place. You become stupid. Stupid, and vapid, like a little cow. Are you a little cow, Tony?”  
   
“You won’t kill me,” Tony croaks.  
   
Standing’s eyes are green, Tony realises. Or, more hazel. An interesting colour, rare. Green eyes are – they’re the most uncommon type –  
   
He adjusts his grip, pressing the tips of his fingers into the soft, cushioned spot behind Tony’s right ear. Hard, and harder, into the fluid-filled gland.  
   
Tony stands up on his toes, tries to alleviate pressure, scrabbles when Standing pulls him even higher. It’s a pleasure-pain, it feels like someone is pressing their fingers beneath the fold of his skin, stroking the muscle, scratching the bone. When Standing doesn’t stop, Tony groans, breathy, more out of pain, but it _sounds_ like arousal, and he can see Standing’s pupils expand through his own tunnel vision, reddening at the edges.  
   
He tries to push him away. Slaps at his chest with his hands, panicky, pathetic. He used to be stronger than this. He remembers, so fucking long ago, back when Tony was a real human with rights, and Steve was his friend, being taught right hook, left hook, undercut. Step on their toes, Tony. If all else fails, go for their eyes.  
   
Tony scratches his nails across Standing’s face, is released, watches him stumble back. He’s bleeding, but just a little; Tony has been chewing his nails. An old nervous tic that’s return, since he’s heading for nervous breakdown.  
   
Standing laughs, blots his cheek. “You fight like a bitch now, Tony,” he says ruefully. “I like it.”  
   
“Leave me alone,” Tony orders, or tries to. “You leave me the fuck alone. You don’t touch me.”  
   
Standing is still laughing, chuckling. “Aww, sweetheart,” he says, “you don’t need to worry. No one here is going to hurt you.”  
   
Tony can feel hysteria creeping in. “I fought Thanos,” he says, “I travelled five months in a junkyard ship to reach earth. I need to fix this. You don’t understand, I’ve promised people. I watched people die.”  
   
“We all watched people die, Tony.”  
   
“But I was _there._ I could have stopped it. You don’t understand, I can bring them all back. Haven’t you lost anyone? Didn’t you lose someone? I can bring them back! I can fix it all, I can – and you’re keeping me here,” Tony spits, “and using me like a fucking broodmare! Like I’m one of them, like I’m just another omega, don’t you understand, I’m Tony Stark. I’m Tony Stark!”  
   
Standing sighs, sticks one hand in his pocket, pats Tony’s head with the other. He squints at him. “We’ll have to see about getting that beard removed, hmm? You’ve got such a lovely soft face underneath it. Absolutely gorgeous.”  
   
   
Tony thinks, they must not know he came back.  
   
Steve. He knows Steve is alive, because they told him he’s alive. Rhodey. He must have survived. But everyone else – a blank.  
   
They might think he’s dead. That he was dusted. Or just killed by Thanos, way back at the start. Even if he knew – Steve, that is – would he come for him? For Tony? Would he forgive him, or let Tony tell him he’s forgiven?  
   
Tony wonders about Barnes. Maybe he’s gone. It becomes Tony’s morbid game. He draws lists in his head, dead and alive. Flesh and dust.  
   
   
He hears crying at night.  
   
The cell walls are fairly thick, but they’re ventilated with some kind of soothing pheromone that’s supposed to keep Tony and the rest of the broodmares relaxed. Drugged and sated, dreaming happy dreams.  
   
Sometimes, carried through the vents, you hear screaming. Pleading.  
   
Tony’s body doesn’t upset him. He was born omega; he always knew that if he went off his suppressors, it would come back. If anything, it was the obliquely masculine frame that would sometimes unnerve him, mismatched from the Tony inside, who looks at alphas with a want they don’t return.  
   
Still, in his line of work, you make sacrifices. Even now, there are plenty of unsuppressed omegas going about life, proud of what they are, happy with the role nature has granted them. Tony could have been that, could have done that, if he hasn’t been so stubborn. Dad had wanted an alpha, you see. Not because he hated omegas, no – because he was practical, and even he could recognise that life is harder when you have to reach further. It’s harder for an omega son than an alpha heir.  
   
Since Tony scratched Standing’s face, he hasn’t been back. Tony suspects they’re drugging him more than they were before, because it’s hard to think of _anything._ He floats. Some days, he thinks, _I have a plan,_ but then he can’t remember what the plan was for, or even why it was important to begin with.  
   
   
He thinks of Steve.  
   
Why? Why, in his undrugged moments, does his brain inexplicably bring him back to Steve’s face? He’s had too much time to think. Those long months, with only Nebula for company, and now lying on this bed. He thinks about everything he would do differently, if he had the chance.  
   
Tony’s always been a slut. He’s slept with men, he’s slept with women, he’s slept with omegas. His inability to hold down a long-term relationship has always come more from his temperamental nature than his suppressing of his biology. His stubbornness. Good omegas marry alphas. They _bond._ Tony didn’t want to be a good omega.  
   
So he puts it down to the hormones they’re mixing in his juice, and pumping through the vents. In his new, strange, erotic nightmares, he’s held down by alphas with gauntlets for hands, fucked on rough rock. In the worst dreams, there’s dust under his hands and knees. _Rebirth,_ Standing will say, patting his head as a faceless alpha violates him. Tony always hates it, but in those awful tableaus, he’s often wet and hard.  
   
Steve will be there. In those dreams, he’ll pick Tony up off the dirty floor, tuck him against his neck. Cover his head with his hand, stop the stares, and the laughter.  
   
Jesus Christ. He needs a therapist.  
   
   
He’s sitting on his bed, and reading a book about the fall of Rome. At the small window, he sees Standing’s grey hair, the black visors of the techs. “Okay, Tony,” Standing is saying kindly, “it’s time.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Stop.”  
   
“C’mon,” he chides, letting two techs pass him through the door, “don’t put up a fight, son, this is going to happen whether you want it to or not.”  
   
Tony throws the book at them. The faceless techs, with their pheromone blocking masks, fucking bee-keepers, freaks, pulling him to his feet. “No!” He barks, “no! Fucking – fucking – “  
He kicks his feet, drags them against the ground. “Tony,” Standing sighs, sounding pained. “Please. You’re making this difficult.”  
   
“I _won’t!”_ Tony screams, “You fucking bastard, you – you psychotic creeps, perverts, I swear to God I’m going to kill you all, I’ll kill all of you, I will, I _will –_ “  
   
They’re dragging him along the hallway. Tony can hear other omegas in other cells, some looking through the little slotted window. “I’m Tony Stark!” He screams, “You can’t do this to me! You idiots, you’ve got it all fucking wrong, you’re going to kill everyone, he’ll come _back,_ he’ll come _back_ if you keep breeding like fucking rabbits – “  
   
“Oh dear,” Standing says as they push him into a medical room, seat him on a padded table, “maybe something for his nerves, Doctor.”  
   
“You don’t have to be here for this,” the doctor says, “we can take it from here.”  
   
Standing rests his hands on Tony’s struggling shoulders, talks over his screams. “No no,” he smiles, benevolently, “this one is a special case. I’d like to see him through till the end.”  
   
“Okie dokie then, Mr Tony,” the doctor says, patting two fingers against Tony’s cheek to get his attention. “What I’m going to need you to do is count down from five for me, can you do that?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, rabid, “you’re a doctor, you’re a doctor, right? So you know, you’re clever, you know this is wrong, that they can’t do this to me – “  
   
“Mmm, hold him firm for me, guys? Thanks.” The doctor pops the cap on the syringe, pulls Tony’s arm – the one that was fractured, that’s still weaker than the other – and slides the needle into the crook of his elbow. “There,” he says, calmly, holding his breath, exhaling, and indicating that Tony should follow. “Isn’t that better?”  
   
Tony is –  
   
He’s –  
   
Blinking. One of the techs pulls the Velcro on the back of his shirt, strips him of it entirely, discards the vest. He tries to cover his chest, but he’s slow, and someone is taking his hands and lying him back on the table, his bare ass now resting against the thin, crinkled paper that protects the rubber.  
   
He’s naked, entirely.  
   
The doctor rolls up his sleeves. “Make a note,” he says casually, “it’s currently 15:41, last one of the day, omega-691, Tony Stark. No, sorry – he has a middle name. Hah, guess I’m too used to hearing it without. Okay, omega-691, Anthony Edward Stark. Age 46 – oh, you’re an old one, aren’t you, Mr Tony? – weighing in at about 165lbs, 5’6.”  
   
Tony is scared. He can’t really feel his extremities. How will he fight back if he can’t move his arms, his legs? The alpha will just be on him, and he’ll have to lie there, watching it, feeling it, unable to –  
   
“I fought him,” Tony slurs, or tries to speak, at least. “I’ve fought aliens. Flown ships. You can’t – I’m not – “  
   
One of the techs moves his head, presses his cheek flat against the bed. “You ready with that?” It asks, muffled by the mask.  
   
“Almost. Alright, Mr Tony, you’re going to feel a pinching on your neck, and it might burn for a bit, but it’s nothing to worry about. We’re just getting you all tracked up.”  
   
Tony can see it, something cylindrical and sharp in his peripheral. He knows it’s nothing to be scared of, but he can’t stop straining to see it, caught and held down like an animal. It makes a sound like a vacuum press, hissing, and there’s a short, intense pain in his throat.  
   
“Almost there,” Standing assures him, patting his head. “Are we ready with the pheromones?”  
   
“Just give me a second,” the doctor says, rattling something. “He really is a special case, huh?”  
   
Standing sighs. “We tried to get him done through official channels,” he says, “but he’s a stubborn bitch, what can you do?”  
   
“I figure he deserves it,” the doctor mutters, shutting a drawer, talking over Tony’s head. “After what happened. He could have stopped it. If there’s anyone who deserves to be slapped in a collar and treated like a bitch – “  
   
“No,” Standing says, sternly. “Absolutely not. He tried his best, Doctor. This isn’t a punishment. This is just a readjustment. Our _friend_ Tony is simply doing his part for humanity in the best way he can, now.”  
   
The doctor doesn’t reply, but he does fix another gooey, patronising smile on his face, leaning over Tony’s head. “You’re almost ready now, Mr Tony,” he says, fixing an oxygen mask around Tony’s mouth and nose. “What you’re going to do is take a deep breath – “ the doctor mimes inhaling sharply “ – and count down from ten. Can you do that for me, Mr Tony?”  
   
Tony holds out as long as he can. And when he finally can’t hold out any longer, he breathes. He doesn’t intentionally count, but the seconds tick down, and down, and – down.  
   
They’re splitting the bed, pulling Tony’s legs apart. They tie his wrists to the table, strap down his head, muzzle him so the alpha doesn’t get confused and use his mouth instead. Tony is getting warmer. Hotter. His chest tingles, his belly burns, he can feel himself growing wet.  
   
Standing’s face, hazy above him. He’s saying something, but it’s muffled to Tony’s ears. Still, he stares at him, stares at him, stares at him. _I’m going to kill you,_ he swears. _I am going to fucking destroy you._  
   
He pats Tony’s head one last time, leaves. The doctor is saying something to the techs, laughing. Tony’s chest starts to heave. Without his mouth, he feels like he can’t get in air properly, not even through the small holes in the fabric.  
   
 _I’m going to hyperventilate,_ Tony thinks, body growing hotter, sweatier, the muscles around his opening relaxing, letting slick dampen his thighs. _Jesus Christ. The first time I’m knotted, and it’ll be in a fucking doctor’s office._  
   
There’s a thumping, from somewhere. All Tony can see is the fluorescent light above his head, and it’s shaking. Tony imagines it’s some other poor bitch being rammed in a medical room just like this one, with an ugly doctor and techs with no faces.  
   
The glass cabinets shudder, slightly. Tony hears boxes of medicine fall to the floor; the doctor curses. He says something to the techs, sharp, but muffled. And there’s plaster dust falling from the ceiling.  
   
Tony groans. His eyes roll back into his head. He can hear it for certain now: shouting. Guns.  
   
 _Please be friendly,_ he thinks, huffing, tugging his wrists in their cuffs. _Fucking hell, please be friendly. Don’t be foe, not now, while I’m trussed up like the thanksgiving turkey –_  
   
He can’t see anything, because they’ve strapped down his head. But he can hear the door slamming open, sees the –  
   
Shield, which hits a tech, flies back to its owner’s arm. Everything sounds like it’s happening very far away; Tony can’t hear over the pulsing of blood in his ears.  
   
Steve is pushing his hair back on his head with his forearm; it’s lankier, greasier, darker than Tony remembers. He’s mouthing words at Tony’s face, ripping off the head-guard, smashing his shield into one of the cuffs.  
   
Tony’s fingers grasp, scramble to undo the other. He sits up, holding his wrists to his chest, _covering_ his chest, because he doesn’t want Steve to see – he doesn’t want –  
   
He’s still muzzled, gagged. Steve is at his back, fingers tickling his nape, pulling at the Velcro. “… ony,” he hears, as Steve grasps his face, speaks to him clearly, firmly, gripping him in place. “ … safe, Tony. It … tonight … out.”  
   
Something in Tony turns into putrid, vile, mulch. He realises Steve is standing between his legs, that his thighs are still split open, and there’s a puddle of Tony’s secretions between them. Steve is close, closer than he has any right to be, and he comes here, saying – things, thinking he can – when Tony has been here for _months,_ and when – he has a plan, he had a plan, and they’ve treated him like a _cow,_ like a _broodmare,_ like an idiot, a simpleton, and now, Steve Rogers is here, and he’s going to _save_ him, and it’ll be Steve the Hero and Tony the pathetic omega, the damsel in distress, no different to what Standing thinks of him –  
   
He slaps him. Sharp, hard. “Get away from me,” he says, but admittedly, even to his own ears the words are slurred, muddled. _Gedawayflommee,_ is what he hears.  
   
The smack doesn’t even make a dent. Steve’s head whips back into position, his face confused. Tony can’t really hear his words, but he sees his mouth exclaim, ‘ _What?!_ ’  
  
Tony draws up his knees to his chest, then kicks them out. He flails his hands. _You fight like a bitch now,_ he hears Standing say, as if he’s at Tony’s back, speaking into his ear.  
   
He loses balance. Starts to slip of the table. Steve catches him. “Easy, easy,” he hears him say, “you’re safe now, Tony, I swear it. We’re gonna get you out of here.”  
   
He’s clasping him under his arms, hands linking by Tony’s chest. Tony’s chest _hurts,_ it hurts bad, sore, swollen, but Steve doesn’t realise. When Tony tries to sink away, he just thinks he’s confused, not-understanding. They’re grappling on the floor, Tony squirming, kicking, and the tiles are cold, and the doctor is bleeding out by his head –  
   
Steve lets go, all at once. Tony sprawls out on the floor, like a starfish, head lolling. He’s crying. He didn’t even realise it. And he’s been saying words this whole time, he’s still screaming them now: “Let me go, please let me go. Let me go, don’t touch me, let me go.”  
   
He curls there. He watches Steve’s boots move in and out of vision, brisk. He’s draping something across Tony’s body, wrapping him in it, even though Tony is so warm, like he’s being boiled alive, sweating in buckets. Steve’s voice is far away, although he recognises it’s register, low, a burr, somehow _more_ now, that Tony is omega, that is Steve is so authoritively alpha.  
   
“Fuck you,” Tony tries to spit, on principle. They’re supposed to hate each other. They’re not supposed to be friends. Maybe it lacks venom. Maybe it’s just too slurred. Steve crouches starts to pick him up anyway.  
   
He rests his hand on Tony’s head. Patting, like he thinks it might be comforting. Tony thinks, it doesn’t matter, it’s not like he has a choice.


	2. Chapter 2

He can hear people.  
   
Voices, muffled. He’s aware he’s warm – not hot, like when they drugged him, just… comfortable. Cozy, even.  
   
Dare he open his eyes? There’s soft light, the setting sun, filtering through hazy curtains. Tony knows, instinctively, that the sun is setting. He couldn’t say how long he’s slept for, but he knows that he’s safe. Knows it, deep in his bones.  
   
He slips away again, briefly. When he wakes up, it’s dark. Someone must have been in to check on him, because the bedroom light is now on but dimmed. There’s a wet towel on his brow, water by his bedside. _Someone has been taking care of me,_ he thinks, muted.  
   
Sitting is okay. He props himself up on his hands, blinks. He’s somehow exhausted yet well rested. Groggy. Unbelievably drowsy. He wants to sleep more, but the voices are carrying up the stairs.  
   
This is a kid’s room. Tony recognises it. The yellow curtains, the old, faded princess stickers on the walls. A doll’s house, abandoned in the corner of the room, covered in a folded blanket. A kid’s desk, fairy lights and all. Tony’s heart falls out of his chest: this was Clint’s daughter’s bedroom. This is Clint Barton’s _home._  
   
And his daughter is nowhere to be found.  
   
Testing, Tony puts his feet over the side of the bed. They hold firm. Tony is wearing some too-large night clothes, but someone has left out a robe for him to put on. His feet are bare; the floorboards are cool on his soles, creaking as he heads down the hallway.  
   
The voices grow louder. “Yeah, well it’s just typical, isn’t it,” he hears Clint say. “Classic Stark.”  
   
Tony pauses at the bottom of the stairs. “Clint,” he hears a lower, rougher voice disparage. _Steve._ Why does he sound so deep, now? Second puberty? Did he always sound that way? “We don’t know what he’s been through.”  
   
“Oh yeah,” Clint snorts, “poor boy, right? Are we calling him that now? Do you think he’ll accept ‘sweetie’ and ‘darling’? Probably, if it came from you – “  
   
“He has – “ Steve is near shouting, then shushed by someone else. “I would like to remind you,” Steve says quietly, through gritted teeth, “that there’s a real chance he’s been assaulted by those men. You think you have it left in you to have sympathy for an omega who’s been raped, Clint? You think there’s an inch of _anything_ left in that heart of yours?”  
   
“I think _you_ forget,” Clint hisses back. “He’s not just some omega, _Rogers._ He’s not going to crawl into bed with you to thank you for saving his ass, bat his bitch lashes and suck you off. He’s _Tony Stark._ And before they did what they did – and I’m not saying he deserved it, and I’m not saying it wasn’t probably hard on him – he had us interred in prison, and he tried to kill _your_ friend, and he took Ross’s side against us all – “  
   
“We’ve been over this,” Bruce says, sounding exhausted. “Jesus Christ, Clint – “  
   
Tony stands there, in the doorway.  
   
Briefly, there’s a silence, where they just stare. He finds Steve’s eyes, at the head of the table, weary; hands folded, shoulders hunched, eyeing Tony with something – cool, disconnected, sad.  
   
“Tony,” Natasha is the first one to say, and she stands, throws her arms around his neck. He doesn’t hug her back, not quite; he’s still staring at Steve, who breaks away first, lowers his gaze. Then, he finds himself patting Natasha’s arms, awkward, not quite reciprocating, but not standing there like a statue, either.  
   
“You must be starving,” she says, pulling back, cupping his face. Her eyes are kind. She’s smiling, nodding encouragingly. “Here. Sit. Bruce…?”  
   
“Tones,” Bruce says, clapping his shoulders, “you should eat. It’s not great, I have some rice and chicken saved for you.” He squeezes Tony’s neck, just slightly; it should be comforting, but Tony finds himself pulling away.  
   
“Great,” he tries to say, forcing a smile.  
   
Clint nods his head at him, across the table. He doesn’t say anything. Tony pulls the robe tighter around his chest. “Where’s Rhodey?” He asks, to no one in particular, and they all kind of just ignore him, Bruce busying himself with stew and bowls, Clint staring off into space, Steve looking at his hands.  
   
“You slept for three days,” Natasha says, instead, “you must have been exhausted.”  
   
Drugged out of his mind, more like. Tony remembers something: fighting, scratching, clawing. He frowns, looks up, and sees that Steve has some hastily healed over red lines on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says, apologetically, “I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know who you were,” he lies.  
   
Steve shrugs. “No bother,” he says. “We’ve all been there.”  
   
The heavy silence continues, only pointedly broken by Bruce humming forcedly, making loud noises as he puts Tony’s bowl in front of him. “Eat up,” he says, “you need your strength.”  
   
Truth is, Tony’s stomach is roiling. He can’t really face eating _anything._ “So, uh,” he begins, picking at the chicken with a fork, “how did you find me?”  
   
“We thought you were dead,” Clint says, sullenly. “After you went up there. Space, I mean.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
“Yeah. Or else you got dusted, like everyone else.”  
   
Tony looks around. “Everyone – everyone?” It’s as close as he can get to asking, specifically, _who._  
   
“What you see is what you get, Stark,” Clint says shortly. “Other than Thor, who took off with Rocket.”  
   
“A rocket?”  
   
“No. _Rocket._ He’s – one of the Guardians, you probably don’t – “  
   
“No, I know,” Tony says defensively. “They were there with me. When…”  
   
Another long, stretching silence. “What happened?” Bruce asks, hushed.  
   
Tony tightens his fingers into fists. The old, aching wound in his side twinges. “I really tried,” he tries to say clearly, but it comes out a touch pathetic, a whisper. “I got stabbed. He was going to end me, but – Strange.”  
   
“What’s strange?” Natasha asks.  
   
“No, _who_ is Strange,” Bruce fills in. “The sorcerer I told you about.”  
   
“When it came down to it,” Tony says awkwardly, dreading this, “he told – Thanos to spare me. And in exchange, he gave him the time stone.”  
   
A beat. “Some guy traded the time stone for your life?” Clint asks, shortly.  
   
Tony nods, looks down at his bowl. He tucks his fingers into the arms of his robe, makes sure it’s pulled tight.  
   
“The _time_ stone,” Clint clarifies. “For _your_ life. _Yours.”_  
   
“Clint,” Steve warns, voice low.  
   
“No, no,” Clint says, holding up his hands, “that seems just about right, doesn’t it? 3.5 billion dead, but hey, Tony Stark gets to live – “  
   
“I know,” Tony says, weakly, “I know, I know. I tried to – stop him, I tried – “  
   
“Tony,” Natasha urges, “you don’t need to do that. It’s okay.”  
   
“Ugh,” Clint makes a noise, like disgust. “Is that how it’s going to be from now on? Anyone says something he doesn’t want to hear, and he goes full-bitch? I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle the smell.”  
   
“ _Clint,”_ Steve says again, this time harsher.  
   
“Oh, and of course,” Clint says, cruelly conspiratorial, “you’ve got the Captain on your side now, haven’t you Tony? Should have grown a pair of tits sooner, maybe we could have avoided this whole mess to begin with – “  
   
“I think,” Natasha interrupts, heavily, “that’s enough. Clint.”  
   
“What?” He asks, “You going to kick me out of my own house?”  
   
Tony hadn’t realised, but he’s pumping out pheromones. Lots of _sorrysorry_ and _don’thurt._ He’s not used to it, hasn’t had to control them in years, and now they just come out without him even noticing.  
   
“No,” Natasha says, evenly. “Of course not. Just – have a sense of perspective, Clint.”  
   
The spot in his throat where the tracer is embedded is throbbing, blood pulsing past. Tony shuts his eyes, claps his hand against it. “They’re going to find me,” he says, suddenly alert, awake. “They put this in me so they could find me – “  
   
“We deactivated it,” Bruce assures, “you’re fine.”  
   
“You’re sure? You’re certain?”  
   
“Here.” Bruce leans forward, presses two fingers to the tag embedded in his throat; nothing. “Normally, if it’s touched it would give you a shock. But see? Nothing. Completely dead.”  
   
“Can I take it off?”  
   
“Not off,” Bruce says wryly, “ _out._ And – probably. But it’s tricky, not something you attempt without the right equipment. I could screw up, nick your artery, next thing we know you’re bleeding out.”  
   
“And what a shame that would be,” Clint says dryly, “all those people dead for nothing.”  
   
Steve slams his fist on the table. “Get _out.”_  
   
Clint rolls his eyes. “My own home,” he mutters, shoving back his chair, dislodging the table. The cutlery rattles; it presses into Tony’s stomach, sharp. “Kicked out, like a dog, like a fucking mongrel…”  
   
He trails off, slamming doors, the walls rattling. There’s an uncomfortable silence. “He lost them all,” Natasha supplies, eventually. “He doesn’t mean it, Tony. Truly. He’s said things to all of us, you’re just his latest target.”  
   
“I’ll have words with him,” Steve says, hastily, pulling his plate closer to him and picking at chicken. “He should know better. It’s just insulting.”  
   
“He’s probably right though,” Tony says, quietly. “I don’t know why I’m alive.”  
   
“Don’t say things like that,” Bruce tells him. “You’re alive because Strange saw you needed to be.”  
   
“For what, though?” Tony asks, bitterly. “To be…”  
   
He trails off. He feels, uncomfortably, like people are judging him, his body. _For what?_ To be fattened like a pig for slaughter, treated like a cow.  
   
“You haven’t eaten,” Natasha points out. “Please eat.”  
   
Tony tries. The chicken is dry, it gets stuck in his throat, the rice is undercooked. “Have you been living here long?” He tries, changing the conversation.  
   
“No,” Steve says evasively. And then: “We were living at HQ. After we grabbed you, that wasn’t an option any more. This was the only place I could think to come.”  
   
So not only has Clint lost his family, he’s also been put upon by Steve and Tony, his peace shattered once more. “How’d you find me?” Tony asks, roughly, pouring himself some water. He’s somehow ravenous, yet sickly food-avoidant.  
   
“We thought you were dead,” Natasha takes over. “Just assumed. Rhodey heard nothing, neither did Pepper – “  
   
Tony chokes. “Pepper’s _alive?”_  
   
Natasha blinks. “Sure,” she says, “I thought you knew.”  
   
“She’s – “  
   
“Okay. Fine. Doing well, she’s – spearheading a lot of regeneration projects with SI. Lots of population movement, the idea is to redistribute – “  
   
Bruce clears his throat. Natasha stops. “Anyway,” she continues, “she’s doing well. But she doesn’t know you’re alive, and neither does Rhodes, and – with your permission – we’d like to keep it that way.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Because she’s civilian,” Steve interrupts. “And she’s – getting on with her life. And Rhodes is a good man, and I don’t want to drag him into this any more than we already have. Besides, they’ll be watching them now,” he adds, darkly. “Getting in touch could be worse for them than for us.”  
   
“So we’re on the run,” Tony clarifies, “under the radar.”  
   
The three of them share a look. Tony feels a spark of irritation; he doesn’t like to be left out. “What?” He asks. “What is it?”  
   
“You didn’t really get news in there, huh?” Steve asks, weakly.  
   
Tony stares at him. _No, you idiot,_ he thinks, _I didn’t get the fucking news._ “What are you not telling me?”  
   
Natasha clears her throat. “You are a – valuable commodity, Tony.”  
   
“I’m a human,” he snaps.  
   
“Right,” she agrees, “but you’re also a very valuable commodity. Things haven’t been – I mean, not exactly the way they used to be.”  
   
“We have one mask,” Bruce says. “Clint’s been using it to go into town, get supplies, but we’re going to need more.”  
   
“I need a suit,” Tony blurts. “I – at HQ, I have things. Things I need.” _I have a plan,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t know if it’s the right time.  
   
“That may be,” Steve says, “but we’re in Iowa. And I had to ditch the ‘coptor so they wouldn’t track us. If we’re getting to New York, it’s because we’ve hijacked a flier, or we’ve driven. And driving is risky. Too much room to be caught, especially with the checkpoints – “  
   
Steve cuts himself off, looking annoyed. “The checkpoints?” Tony prompts.  
   
“And the catchers,” Natasha inputs. “Lots of omegas didn’t turn up for registration. Which is against the law, you have to be registered.”  
   
“Are you?” Tony asks.  
   
“I’m infertile. There’s a red dot by my name.”  
   
“Lucky you,” Tony says, darkly.  
   
“It’s not good, Tony,” Steve says. “You’re supposed to turn your omegas over to the Bureau, but some families try to hide them. Or the omegas whose families got dusted try and hide on their own. There are safehouses. People who take them in. But it’s a booming business, catchers go around and – if they find you – “  
   
“If they find me?” Tony prompts. “What? What happens if they find me?”  
   
“The government disavows them,” Bruce says. “They’re unofficial. But there’s definitely money changing hands, and worse. Omegas get turned over to the government, sure. Or, they get kept. Or sold to someone else. Somewhere else.”  
   
 “You’re still recognizable,” Natasha tells him. “Even without the beard. Clint has an old SHIELD kit lying around somewhere, we can change your hair and eyes.”  
   
“Great,” Tony says, flatly. “Can’t wait.”  
   
“Relax,” Natasha says, “you look good as a blonde.”  
   
“Clint knows a guy who can forge us some documents. We can make out you have dual nationality – if you’re from somewhere else, you’re exempt. It’s too much like work for the government,” Bruce says. “Then, hopefully if you look just a little less like yourself…”  
   
“You’re not very prepared,” Tony says, with just a hint of reproach.  
   
“That’s because we didn’t prepare,” Steve responds. “We were going over anomalies. Heard there had been a crash near here about five months ago. Didn’t think much of it – there’ve been all kind of incidents since the snap. And it was a hunch; what if it _was_ you. And if the feds had picked you up, wouldn’t they tag you? And if they tagged you, wouldn’t they take you to the closest facility?”  
   
Tony can’t believe he was saved from rape by a technicality. By a chance. He curls his arm around his belly. “Well,” he says, “thank you, anyway.”  
   
“You’re welcome,” Steve responds, stiffly.  
   
There’s another silence. Then Natasha is standing. “Tony,” she says, “I’ll bet you want to get some of those scents off you. What say I run you a bath and we can see about getting you some real clothes?”  
   
“That’s – okay,” Tony agrees. “Okay, yeah.”  
   
“Excellent.” Natasha is brisk, standing him up. “Say goodnight, boys.”  
   
“Night, Tony,” Bruce smiles, weary.  
   
“Goodnight, Tony,” Steve agrees, staring at his hands.  
   
“You shouldn’t worry about them,” Natasha says, following him up the stairs, voice quiet. “They just don’t know where they stand. They’re worried about you.”  
   
“They shouldn’t be,” Tony mutters. “I’m fine. Seriously, it’s just suppressants, I’ve been off them before – “  
   
“I think it’s more the held down and raped aspect, Tony.” A beat. “They didn’t, uh. No one – you know, did anything. I mean, Steve got there in time – “  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says shortly. “He did.”  
   
“Okay,” Natasha says, looking visibly relieved. “Well, that’s good.”  
   
 _Yeah, it’s fantastic,_ Tony thinks, sitting on the toilet while Natasha runs the bath. “You know,” she says, drying her hands, “there is something we could do. To help.”  
   
Tony looks up. “Huh?”  
   
She’s avoiding his gaze. “You’re almost fifty, right? So in a few years, five give or take, you’re gonna go through the change. And you’re not going to be able to have kids, anyway.”  
   
“Right.”  
   
“So – it’s not going to get the feds off our case. We committed a crime, getting you out of that facility, and we’d face consequences regardless. But… if they _did_ catch us. Or you, specifically. We could make it that they – wouldn’t be able to do things to you. Rape you,” she adds, bluntly.  
   
“What are you saying?”  
   
“That – there are doctors,” she says, awkwardly. “Who could do a procedure. Don’t think of it as sterilisation, think of it as – premature menopause.”  
   
“Like you?”  
   
“It wasn’t my choice. I’m trying to give you a choice.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “I wanted a kid,” he says, shame-faced, bizarrely embarrassed.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I – wanted one. Since everything happened, with Steve, and Barnes, and Siberia. I don’t know. I guess I felt like something was missing, I – picked up a mentee, sort of. And he was a good kid. Omega, too. I think I thought – I was ready. And I wanted one.” _Morgan._  
   
“Oh,” Natasha says, awkwardly. “Well there’s still time,” she lies. “When this is all over…” she trails off. “I think Bruce should take a look at you,” she says. “Just in case.”  
   
“After,” Tony agrees, exhausted, dreading being poked and prodded, the shaded, almost embarrassed look on Bruce’s face when he has to examine Tony’s new body.  
   
“If you need help,” she says, “you know where to find me.”  
   
“Thanks, but I won’t. Can bathe myself.”  
   
“Right.” Natasha’s eyes drift the cabinet above the sink. “Don’t lock the door,” she says. “We don’t know what’s in your system. Drugs could make you pass out, or – just don’t lock the door.”  
   
“No privacy,” Tony smiles, shark-like, “got it.”  
   
“That’s not what I meant.”  
   
“It’s fine. I’m used to my body not belonging to me, Nat.”  
   
She looks annoyed at him, but tactfully doesn’t mention it again. “I’ll leave clothes outside,” she says gently.  
   
Tony examines himself in the mirror. He pinches the fat on his belly, his hips. Moves his hands up, presses his palms flat against his chest. He doesn’t want to say, _breasts._ They’re not, not like how you get on a woman. Just – swollen, slightly, with more fat than muscle. If he presses hard enough they almost look like –  
   
There’s a warm, tickling sensation just behind his nipple. Tony jerks away his hand, but it’s too late; it’s wet, damp. He stares at it in horror, then quickly wipes his hands on his hip, turns and washes it under the sink. He steps into the bath, and the warm, soapy water eases and soothes his tender areas. Still, he’s shaken.  
   
Maybe he imagined it. He tells himself he imagined it. When he’s finished bathing – and feeling better for it – he wraps a large towel around his chest, steps out onto the landing.  
   
Fucking hell. Steve is walking up the stairs. Tony considers ducking back into the bathroom, but he doesn’t want Steve to think he’s – scared, or embarrassed or whatever. His feet are soaking into the carpet.  
   
Steve doesn’t spot him at first, looking down until he reaches the top of the stairs. Then he sees him, pressed against the wall, holding the towel to his chest. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something; moves closer. Tony presses himself further away, tries to sink into the wall.  
   
Steve gets the message. He doesn’t say anything at all. Keeps walking, enters a room on the left.  
   
Tony’s legs are shaking. What the fuck? Why are his legs _shaking?_ Like he just had a brush with death? He picks up the clothes Natasha has left outside the door, heads back into his bedroom. His brow is sweating. The back of his neck is damp.  
   
Again, he catches his reflection in the mirror. Like this, accidental, he seems like a stranger. He can’t recognise himself. Frowning, he lightly touches the metal implant on the right side of his throat; slightly raised, stainless steel. He twists it, feels it tug all the way down, winces and stops. Ouch.  
   
It’s engraved, he realises. No one had told him. _IA.691._ What does that mean? Iowa, probably. And – he has a vague recollection of a doctor. _Anthony Edward Stark, omega 691._ He’s surprised it doesn’t come with the tagline, _property of the state._  
   
He feels a little queasy, so he sits. The clothes Natasha gave him are some of Clint’s old ones, but they just don’t fit right; his shoulders are more slender, his hips digging into the pants waist. He needs clothes cut for an omega, but he doesn’t even know where he’d get them from now.  
   
He supposes he should be grateful she didn’t pick out any of Laura’s old things. Although maybe that was just tact. Tony can’t imagine Clint being overly thrilled seeing Tony waltzing around in his dead wife’s underwear.  
   
***  
   
He dreams.  
   
“I hope they remember you,” Thanos says, looking down at Tony. “Half of humanity will still live, Stark. You have my word.”  
   
Thanos rests his hand on Tony’s head. Pats him, like a good dog. “You have an omega’s body now,” he says.  
   
Tony gets confused. He thinks – Standing. Standing, with a gauntlet on his hand, and the crying of other stolen omegas. “You want to help, Tony? This is how you help. It’s your biological destiny. Let the big boys take control.”  
   
Tony is still bleeding from his side. He throws himself in front of Peter. “Don’t,” he says, “he’s just a kid. He’s just a kid, you can’t.”  
   
“He’s mature,” Standing says, looking pleased with himself. “Round them both up. Tag them. We’ll start with the boy.”  
   
Peter doesn’t react. In the dream, he’s a statue, stiff, dumb. “No,” Tony is screaming, like a mother protecting her cub, “don’t you fucking touch him! Monsters! Animals!”  
   
In the end, it all turns to dust.  
   
Upon waking, Tony thinks, _damn, those fucking drugs really did a number on me._ Since his time at the facility, his dreams have taken on an eerie, uber-realistic quality. Surreal. Terrifying.  
   
The windows are framed by yellow curtains, printed with elephants. Outside, the sun is just rising, the sky slanted with the first hint of light.  
   
Tony picks up his robe, wraps it around his nightclothes, heads down stairs. The porch door slams once, twice, picked up in an early-morning breeze. He sits on the bench, and _breathes._  
   
Air. Earth air. Oxygen. Not the filtered, sterile crap from the facility, tinged with artificial pheromones. Not the dusty, stick-in-your-lungs, cancerous shit from Titan. Pure, unadulterated, air. And Tony can breathe as much as he likes. Because he is free.  
   
The air is cool, almost cold, early spring. Tony is warm though, inside his blanket. He thinks – if he just tipped his head here – he could shut his eyes and – it’s nice and safe, and fresh, and it’s so far from his cell at the facility…  
   
When he wakes up, there’s drool crusted on his cheek and sun on his face. Someone is playing a radio, and the commentator is easy’n’breezy. He can smell bacon, wafting through a window. “W’huh?” He manages jerking up. The crocheted blanket pattern is imprinted in his cheek.  
   
“Hi, Tony,” Steve is saying. He looks like – a lumberjack. A lumberjack, who knits in his free time, and maybe works with kids in some way. “Bruce told me to get you up. So I went upstairs, but your bed was empty. And then I saw your – “ Steve flushes, slightly, “hair. You know, poking out. So I figured you were out here.”  
   
“Great – sleuthing,” Tony frowns, sitting up, smacking his lips. “What time is it?”  
   
“Only early, still. About 8AM.”  
   
“Huh. Go figure.”  
   
Steve stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sort of – flinches onto his toes. “I was gonna say,” he starts, oozing apology, “about last night. In the hallway. If I – unsettled you, or – “  
   
“You didn’t,” Tony interrupts, quickly. “It’s fine. I was just a bit – on edge.”  
   
“That’s great,” Steve says. “I mean – not that you’re on edge, or – that you’re – just that it wasn’t me. Not because I’m self-obsessed though! Just because I’d hate to think they – did something to you, or hurt you. Hurt you in a way that – you would not like me. Or alphas in general. I’d rather you didn’t like me because we fought. I’d rather you didn’t like me because – I’m an awful human. Not because I’m alpha.”  
   
Tony takes in a breath, squints. “You… want me to hate you because you’re an awful human?”  
   
“Yes,” Steve says, grateful, “that’s exactly it.”  
   
“I – don’t, hate you. I think. Is this – is this some kind of roundabout way to get me to tell you I forgive you, or…?”  
   
“No! I just don’t want you – “ Steve is getting flustered, “to be uncomfortable around me because you think I’ll hurt you, or – like I’m some crazy alpha. That’s all. That’s what I mean.”  
   
“Right. Well – thanks,” Tony says, stiffly. “I’ll try my best, okay?”  
   
“Great,” Steve says, looking relieved, smiling, unconcerned. “That means a lot to me, Tony. I know it must be hard.”  
   
“Yeah. I mean – I’m not that screwed up, you know? They didn’t really touch me…”  
   
He trails off. Steve looks awkward, like the realities of Tony’s captivity are hard to digest. “Bruce is making breakfast,” he rejoins. “He made Clint get avocado, especially for you, so you should come.”  
   
“Just what I need,” Tony says, standing. “Another reason for Clint to spit at me.”  
   
“Oh,” Steve looks crestfallen. “Should I not have said? I thought they were your favourite – “  
   
“No, I mean – that’s very thoughtful, Steve.” He pats his arm, awkwardly. “Thanks – th-thanks, man,” he finishes weakly.  
   
“It’s Tony,” Bruce says, smiling at him as he enters. “I made you – “  
   
“Avocado with bacon, I heard.”  
   
“You should eat,” Bruce advises, plating it up. “You look like hell warmed over.”  
   
“Yeah, well I kinda stopped eating there for a while,” Tony says casually. “Thought hunger strike would work. It didn’t.”  
   
“You little suffragette, you,” Clint drawls, knocking against the table. He looks tired. He smells drunk. “Aren’t you a regular little freedom fighter?”  
Tony keeps eating his bacon. “Morning, Barton,” he says.  
   
“ _Morning, Barton,”_ Clint mocks, childishly.  
   
“Clint,” Natasha says disparagingly. “C’mon.”  
   
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Clint says, “the special boy has to have space to eat his breakfast, I know. I’ll just be out front. Of my house.”  
   
“Don’t be such a martyr,” Bruce says, trying to lighten to mood. “Tony hasn’t eaten proper food in months, Clint.”  
   
“Yeah, and whose fault it that?”  
   
Tony frowns, pushes his plate away. “Well it’s not mine,” he says, calmly, “if that’s what you’re suggesting.”  
   
“Right, right,” Clint snaps his fingers, “because nothing is ever your fault, right? Yet somehow, we’re always breezing in to clean up your messes.”  
   
“Backtrack,” Tony says, feeling the back of his heat the way it does when he gets angry. “Just – rewind, work it through. I landed in a _cornfield,_ was taken to hospital, arrested, molested, and this is my fault because…”  
   
“This wouldn’t be happening,” Clint snarls, “this wouldn’t even be _real_ if that wizard hadn’t – “  
   
“Oh, Jesus,” Bruce says exhaustedly, “here we go again.”  
   
“But it’s true! We’re just supposed to accept – “  
   
“He said it was the only way,” Tony grits, “you think I’m happy about it?”  
   
“You’re supposed to _save_ us, you’re supposed to be the key, and yet all you’ve done so far is sit in a cell for five months – “  
   
“It’s not like I _wanted to be there,_ Clint!”  
   
“If you had even a plan – “  
   
“I do, have a plan,” Tony interrupts. “I do.”  
   
Clint stares. Narrows his eyes. “A plan?” He questions.  
   
“I had an idea,” Tony says, levelly. “I had a lot of time to mull it over. Nine months, to be exact.”  
   
Steve is looking at him closely. “An idea, huh? For what? To achieve what?”  
   
“To – right what has been wronged,” Tony tells him, with a wry smile. “Put us back on the right track.”  
   
They’re sharing glances, all three of them. “Okay,” Natasha says. “Explain.”  
   
“Anyone got paper?”  
   
“This – isn’t going to be one of those things only Bruce understands, right?” Natasha asks, passing him a napkin and pen.  
   
“No. This is layman’s terms. Think of it this way: our universe is supposedly infinite and expanding, correct?”  
   
“I get that much Tony, thanks,” Steve mutters.  
   
“Okay, so think of it as this square.” Tony draws it on the napkin. “This is us. Obviously – we’re infinite. So you can maybe imagine the square without sides, but – that’s a different debate, because if this universe starts to collapse one day we would be able to put a finite limit on it’s growth – “  
   
Bruce clears his throat.  
   
“But _anyway,”_ Tony continues. “We’re the square. And in our universe – Thanos has just wiped 50% of it out.”  
   
“Correct,” Natasha says.  
   
“So anyway, before all that happened, I had a bug in my butt. Lots of other scientists – probably better at theoretical physics than me, to be honest – have had the same idea for _decades._ But it’s hard to match up that theoretical work with practical application, i.e., actually building the damn thing.”  
   
“The damn what?” Steve asks. “You haven’t said.”  
   
Tony sighs, picks up the pen. “This is square is us, agreed?” He clarifies, shading it in.  
   
“Agreed,” they say tiredly, in unison.  
   
“Now, what if there was a square _here,_ too?” Tony marks one directly to the left of the shaded square. “And we sort of share this line, this _edge,_ if you will. And they have a universe exactly like ours, almost identical, except – I don’t know, there’s a small difference. Steve is a brunette instead of blonde.”  
   
“That’s it? That’s the only difference in the entire universe? My hair colour?”  
   
“Because,” Tony says, “what if there are _infinite_ universes? And so, there isn’t just on here, to our right, there’s one to our left. And one on top of us. And one beneath us. And those universes have the same. And it goes on and on, a puzzle of infinite universes, the same lives, different lives, stretching on and on and on.”  
   
“That’s great,” Bruce says, “that’s very… theoretical, Tony,” he’s saying, carefully. That’s Bruce’s polite way of saying he thinks Tony’s got a few screws loose.  
   
“Okay,” Tony says, “I should clarify – this isn’t theoretical. I know it’s not, because about a year ago, I had a visitor.”  
   
“A visitor?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowed.  
   
Tony looks away. “Yeah. A guest. From – another dimension.”  
   
There’s a weird, awkward silence around the table. “I believe it,” Bruce says, abruptly. “We’ve had weirder.”  
   
“Who was the guest?” Steve asks, directly.  
   
“I guess – I guess it was you.”  
   
“Me?” A beat. “Was I brunette?”  
   
Tony snorts. “No. You were just you. Normal you. You said, I’d sent you on a job, hopping around, place to place. Trying to collect intel on different strands of universes, all the different ways our futures could go.”  
   
“And?”  
   
“And we talked for a bit. About some stuff. And he then he left.”  
   
Steve raises his brows. “About stuff?” He asks, lightly.  
   
“The point is, it got me thinking. If that Tony can do it, why can’t I?”  
   
“Maybe he’s smarter than you,” Clint says shortly.  
   
“Thanks, Clint,” Tony continues, “but as it happens, he’s not. Couple months before this all got started, I finished my prototype. Sent through a letter to the coordinates Steve gave me.”  
   
“And?” Natasha prompts.  
   
“And, the other Tony wrote back.”  
   
The silence is different now. Thrumming. Steve leans forward in his chair. “You mean to say – “  
   
“We could go. Different universe. Anytime we want. Cut a hole in the edge of the square, so to speak.”  
   
“And then what?”  
   
Tony finds himself gripping the paper towel, twisting it under his fingers. “Every universe has infinity stones,” he says. “In some, they get broken, or lost to time. But every universe has them. Steve’s universe does.”  
   
“You talked about it with him?” Bruce asks. “You’re sure?”  
   
“I’m sure. And we would only need the time stone,’ Tony presses, bringing them round to the idea. “We don’t need to mess with anything more than that. We get the stone, we dial it back. All the way back. We fight him together. Knowing his every move.”  
   
Tony lets it sink in. He looks around the table, at Steve, Bruce, Natasha, Clint. “That…” Natasha says slowly, “that could work. If what you’re saying is true.”  
   
“It’s true.”  
   
“We could go – we could go all the way back?” Clint croaks. “Like, all the way?”  
   
“Not too far,” Tony says, as gently as he can manage. “Maybe to just after what happened at the UN.”  
   
He can feel Steve’s eyes on him. “Do it differently?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, not looking at him. “Do it differently.”  
   
“This thing you built,” Natasha asks, “could you build it here?”  
   
“Hah,” Tony laughs, “not a chance in hell.”  
   
“Well, where is it?”  
   
“HQ. It’s hidden. No one could possibly find it.”  
   
“You’re sure?” Steve asks, urgently. “They went through HQ months ago, tore everything out, took _everything_ you build under some kind of terrorism law _._ I don’t think – “  
   
“Steve, trust me. If they’d found it, we would know. And you’re underestimating how good I am at hiding things I don’t want people to find.”  
   
“If you say so,” Steve nods. “It’s not like we have a better plan, anyway.”  
   
“I have a house,” Tony says, “it would be more secure than here. I have resources, suppressants, a suit. It’s not as a jazzy as some of more my recent enterprises, but it’ll do. It’ll be enough to get to HQ.”  
   
“Tony, they’ll be watching your houses like hawks,” Bruce warns, looking nervous. “I’m not sure – “  
   
“It’s not under my name. It’s my cousin’s, or was. Barely anyone remembers him. I’ve been using it for years on and off, no one’s found it yet.”  
   
“Where?” Steve asks.  
   
“West Virginia.”  
   
Steve winces. “That’s still a long way to go.”  
   
“We’d have to get there,” Natasha agrees. “We have the truck. But with the checkpoints – “  
   
“We’ll go on foot,” Steve says, almost immediately. “I think we can agree there’s no immediate rush. Most important thing is we don’t get caught, and we do it well.”  
   
“ _We_ don’t get caught? More like him,” Clint snorts, jerking his chin Tony. “They’ll have dogs out after his scent. It’ll be impossible. And I’m saying that as a hunter. There’s just no way we make it on foot without them killing me, killing her, maybe lopping your fucking head off, and taking him back.”  
   
“And you’ve got a better idea, Clint?” Steve grits. “I’d love to hear it. Tony’s given us a plan, what have you come up with?”  
   
“A _house._ For you to _hide_ in. Because that’s what you do now, isn’t it?”  
   
Yikes. Tony can scent it, for the first time in a long time. Fight. That jaggy, hard, disgusting scent that makes Tony’s hair stand on edge, that makes him want to build a suit out of scraps and duck away until it’s done. “I don’t hide,” Steve says, coldly.  
   
“Right,” Clint snorts, getting up from the table, kicking his chair, “except, you do. And that’s all you’ve done for three long, long years, Steve. And you know why?” Clint points at Tony, doesn’t look at him. “Because of _that._ ”  
   
“I have a name,” Tony finds himself saying, despite himself. He’s not an it, he’s not a _that,_ he’s a human, a person, and Clint can’t talk to him this way –  
   
“You should stop blaming others for your shit choices, Clint,” Steve says, still not standing, but face hard, eyes harder. “You’re upset you weren’t here? That you made the wrong call, didn’t get to spend time with your wife and kids? That they got dusted while you were trying to make amends for own crappy life decisions? You don’t get to take that out on us. We can’t give you the forgiveness you wanted from them. But, we can bring them back,” Steve finishes. “We can do better than that; we can turn back time. And you would do fucking well not to insult the only person left on earth who can make it right.”  
   
Clint seems to take this in. He holds Steve’s gaze for a long while, then loses his nerve. “Whatever,” he mutters, slinking away.  
   
“He doesn’t mean it,” Natasha says, not for the first time. “He’s heartbroken.”  
   
“It’s fine.” Tony gets it. He wishes he could act the same way.  
   
“You’re probably eager to leave,” Steve says, “I get that. I don’t know if Clint wants to come with us or not, but if he does – you should know that I think we should wait it out, anyway. A couple more weeks. We need to plan, and we’re safe here for the time being. Besides,” he adds, “there’s no saying where you stand, physically. Give your scent some time to settle, maybe – ride out a heat, if we have to. Clint’s guy might be able to get you some suppressants on the black market, but they’re rarer than – hell, rarer than infinity stones these days.”  
   
“None?” Tony asks, incredulously. People can sneak cocaine and heroin past border security but not suppressors?  
   
“We’re not the only place that’s gone archaic,” Natasha says, darkly.  
   
Tony is suddenly aware that he doesn’t know anything about anything. The past nine months are just – a blur. “I’ll need a computer,” he says, tiredly. “See if I can access the AI. This will be a lot easier if I can.”  
   
“I’ll give you mine,” Natasha says.  
   
“And, uh, Bruce?” Tony asks, aware that Natasha and Steve are still listening. “I have a – could I see you? Upstairs?”  
   
“Is there a problem?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says evasively. “Kinda. It’s a – health thing.”  
   
“Oh.” Bruce clears his throat, stands. “Right. Right away, Tony. After you, if – if you want to go now.”  
   
Tony feels like he’s walking to the guillotine, walking up those stairs. His feet feel heavy. _It’s just biology,_ he tells himself, _it’s the same body you always had. You just need an expert opinion._  
   
Bruce is closing the door behind him. “Now,” he says, “what can I do to hel – oh! Jesus, Tony.”  
   
He’s stripped off his shirt, sitting on the side of the bed. Bruce is averting his eyes. Same old chest as ever, except now – well, now it’s just _different,_ isn’t it?  
   
“I have a problem,” Tony says, shortly. “I’m – I’m lactating. And I know it’s probably nothing, but I can’t stop thinking – what if they got to me, or – or did something to me, while I was drugged, and I’m pregnant and I don’t even know it, or I have some kind of… hormonal issue – “  
   
“Tony,” Bruce says, gently.  
   
“Don’t do that,” Tony snaps. “Don’t patronise me. Just tell me what’s wrong!”  
   
Bruce exhales, puts his bag on the bed, pulls out hand sanitizer, disposable gloves. “I can’t say what they had you on exactly,” he continues. “Chances are, it’s just messed with you a little bit. Lots of drugs can do that.”  
   
“But which drugs?” Tony presses. “Is it permanent?”  
   
“I can guess. Chances are they were giving you something to change your scent. It’s like – “ Bruce sighs, lingers on how best to describe it, “ – to make you more attractive, to the alpha. Lots of different scents you can use, lust, happy, hell, even distress makes some sickos want to – do the act,” he says, awkwardly. “What I think has happened, is they went with pregnancy.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“They changed your scent to make your smell pregnant,” Bruce explains, softly, like he’s speaking to a child. “Your body is probably a bit confused.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
“Yeah. Do you want me to look?”  
   
Tony nods, dumbly. “You don’t think – you don’t think that’s why Steve’s being so nice, do you?”  
   
“No,” Bruce says gently, “I think is just a good man, who’s worried about you.”  
   
“Alright then,” Tony says, jerking his chin. “Have at them.”  
   
Don’t worry, Bruce says quietly. It’s alright, Tony. It’s just biology. Don’t think about it.  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. Bruce’s fingers are covered in a latex glove. He softly palpates the swollen flesh.  
   
“These will go,” he promises. “A couple weeks, maybe a couple months. It’s just the stuff they had you on.”  
   
He presses his palm to the underside of Tony’s left breast, gently presses upwards. His thumb just brushes Tony’s nipple, hardening, thick, rosy red.  
   
Oh no, Bruce says, awkwardly. Tony feels it, damp on his skin, tickling. Bruce takes back his hand, quickly dries off the pearlescent liquid from the gloves, swipes a little too roughly at Tony’s breast. It doesn’t have the desired effect; instead of halting the flow of milk, it increases it, small swelling drops that reach their full fatness, then roll down Tony’s chest.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, stripping off the gloves, “there really isn’t anything I can do, at least – not here. If you wanted, I could bind them, you know. To help – if that would make you feel better. But they’re so new, and – sensitive,” he winces. “It would hurt. A lot.”  
   
Bruce is averting his eyes. The sight of Tony’s heavy, leaking tits seems a bit too much for him. “It’s fine,” Tony mutters thickly. “I’m used to it.”  
   
Bruce nods. “Well – okay, then,” he says. “If we could just get you some suppressants – “  
   
“I said it’s fine,” Tony snaps at him. “I get it. There’s nothing to be done. Thank you, anyway. For looking.” I’m sure it was really hard for you, Tony thinks, antagonistically.  
   
There’s a knock at the door. “Hold on!” Bruce calls, passing Tony a fresh shirt. “I’ll see about getting something to stop the flow,” he says, quietly. “It’s the least I can do.”  
   
Tony smiles without letting it reach his eyes. “Come in,” he says to the intruder, “I’m decent.”  
   
Natasha holds up a black container, zipped and locked, some kind of Kevlar. “Thought now was as good a time as any,” she says. “You ready for a makeover?”  
   
***  
   
Tony looks like the progeny of a Swedish milkmaid and her albino lover.  
   
“Oh, shit,” Steve blurts as Tony comes down the stairs, hands shoved into the front pocket of his sweater. “That’s – uh. It looks good. Honestly, it does.”  
   
It doesn’t.  
   
Natasha had bleached his hair and the only toner on hand was something too light for Tony’s skin. Maybe the same shade as Steve, except on Tony it looks deliriously pale. She’d soaked his pupils in one of SHIELD’s masking liquids, which coated them in an off-blue hue, and now Tony feels like 90s male model version of Frankenstein’s monster.  
   
“It looks shit,” Clint says bluntly, “but I guess it does the job. I barely recognise you.”  
   
“Thanks, Clint,” Tony says, sucking on his cheek. “Great. That’s just – great. How come none of you are getting extreme makeovers?”  
   
“I guess probably because the feds want to kill us and capture you? Big difference, Tono,” Clint mutters, flipping through the morning paper.  
   
“ _Tono?”_  
   
“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” Steve says gently, drying a glass with a red checked towel. “It just looks strange to you because you’re used to being darker. You’ll get used to it, honestly, it doesn’t look bad.”  
   
But it does. Standing in the mirror, Tony can’t recognise himself. At all. His face is softer, fuller, the bones of his jaw less sharp, more plump. He looks younger, but that’s not a good thing; it just gives him the look of someone inexperienced, naive, vulnerable. His bleached eyebrows give him the appearance of someone perpetually surprised, or worried, dark in all the wrong places. His hair, longer than it used to be, more feminine. And without his beard…  
   
Clint is right. It does look like shit. Worse than shit: Tony looks in the mirror, and he doesn’t see Tony at all. He sees an omega, small, slight, pretty. It feels wrong. It feels right.  
   
***  
   
“Here,” Tony says, marking the X on the map. “This is it. This is where my house is.”  
   
Steve blows air. “That’s going to be a trek.”  
   
“If I don’t have a suit, we’re not getting anyway,” Tony says, bluntly. “I have supplies their. Suppressants. And trust me – we won’t be found.”  
   
“Then I say, we go,” Natasha agrees. “Make our way on foot. Should take us a week, if we’re not held up.”  
   
“And if we get split up?” Bruce says. “If something happens?”  
   
“Head for the house,” Tony presses. “Just – keep on going. Stick to the plan.”  
   
“And worse?” Clint asks from the corner, twanging the line of his bow. “If one of us dies? Two of us?”  
   
“Then you get brought back when we win,” Steve says, firmly.  
   
“Right,” Clint snorts with no humour, voice dark. “We sacrifice ourselves for _him.”_  
   
A breath of silence. Then: “What else do you have to live for anyway, Clint?” Steve asks, softly.  
   
***  
   
There are no dreams that night. _Weird,_ Tony thinks, drifting to. He feels warm, and heavy.  
   
Oh. _Comforted._ Eyes shut, pressed into a soft pillow, duvet wrapped around his shoulders, keeping out the night chill. He realises, there’s been no dream. No nightmare tonight. His first dreamless sleep in months. No dust. No rocks hurting his knees. Gauntlets and smiling alphas.  
   
Yawning, he rolls into the pillows, smacks his lips, curls his leg across them. Feels good. A nice stretch. Supremely comfortable. Tony hums. “Mmm,” he says.  
   
“Mmm,” the pillow responds.  
   
His eyes snap open. His pillow has a scratchy beard and roman nose. His pillow has a _face._ It’s a _person._ It’s _Steve._  
   
His throat closes up. He tries to work up the momentum to roll away, but he’s terrified if he moves, Steve will awake. He can feel the back of his neck prickling with sweat, his breath coming in choked pants. Did he come here? In the night, while Tony slept? What did he do to him? Tony isn’t wearing a shirt. He isn’t even wearing a shirt, oh God.  
   
He feels sick in the back of his throat, panicky. He’s half-naked and he can’t remember anything and Steve is in his bed. All he can think is that he went to bed last night, and that was it. Has he touched him? Has he been touching him? Has he drugged him? Maybe it’s a sick joke. Maybe – he’s so omega now, maybe Steve knows if he wanted to – he has no choice, he has no out, he can’t even –  
   
Steve is yawning, rolling. His face is now inches from Tony’s. _Scream,_ Tony thinks. _If you scream, someone will come._ Natasha, Bruce, hell, in Clint might object to an alpha creeping into a lonesome O’s bed and molesting him in the night. _This is his daughter’s bedroom,_ Tony thinks hysterically, because that makes the whole thing even worse.  
   
Steve is stirring, frowning slightly like he senses something is wrong. His eyes open. And this close – Tony can see the crinkles in his irises, hypnotic. A fleck of brown. “Tony?” Steve says, sleepily.  
   
That’s when all hell breaks loose. Tony doesn’t really _think_ about screaming; he just does. It starts as a low cry, which builds and builds and builds, while Steve shakes sleep from his head. And then his eyes are widening and he’s scrambling away, raising his hands. “Oh no,” he’s saying, “oh no, oh no, oh no.”  
   
Meanwhile, Tony’s cry is reaching a crescendo. The door slams open, a shotgun followed by Clint, pointing at Tony, then Steve. “What did you do?!” He asks, brandishing it with a little too much flair. “What the fuck did you do to him?”  
   
Clint spins. “Did he touch you?!” He asks Tony, directly. Then back to Steve. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! Are you fucking _insane?!”_  
   
“Jesus, Steve,” Bruce says, incredulously.  
   
“I didn’t,” Steve swears, shaking his head. “Oh, God – no no, this is a misunderstanding – “  
   
“A misunder – a misunderstanding? You do _that?_ In _this_ room? In _my_ daughter’s bed?!”  
   
“He’s vulnerable.” Bruce is shaking his head. “We had this discussion, Steve, we said he was vulnerable – “  
   
“You,” Natasha spits, pointing at Bruce, “ _shut up,_ he can hear you. And _you,”_ she turns, placing her hand over the end of Clint’s shotgun, “need to calm down. All of you. Just – hold back. Steve, what were you thinking?”  
   
“I wasn’t – Jesus, Tony,” Steve pleads, turning towards him. “It was an accident, I – I haven’t been sleepin’ so good. God, fucking – fuck, fuck, _fuck.”_ He’s slapping his head, in time with his curses. “I would have been sleep-walking. I did it, in Wakanda, none of you were there, you don’t know.”  
   
Natasha turns to Tony. “Did he touch you?” She asks, intensely serious. “Don’t hold back, Tony, we trust you. Did he _touch_ you?”  
   
“He was there,” Tony chatters, “he was there. He was right there, right – “ he points at the bed, “there!”  
   
“And he touched you?” Natasha questions, moving her hand to stop Steve from speaking. “Did he? On your chest, anywhere else?”  
   
“He – I – “ Tony’s pulse is so fast he can feel it jostling the tag on this throat. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him, I – “  
   
Steve has his head in his hands. “I wouldn’t,” he’s groaning, “oh, God, I wouldn’t. I’m an idiot, I’m a fucking idiot – “  
   
“What was it?” Natasha demands. “Did Tony ask you here? Did he drink? Jesus, Steve, you know even if he asked you it’s a terrible idea – “  
   
“He didn’t ask me,” Steve says. “I went to sleep in my own bed. I promise. I went to sleep with – no intention of leaving my bed till morning. I’ve been moving around at night, I don’t even realise I’m doing it. Wanda – she used to help. But now…”  
   
He trails off. Tony is slowly getting over the shock. He believes him. Since his implant was removed, his senses have been sharper, and – Steve is too emotional to be lying. Tony can scent it on him.  
   
“Tony?” Bruce is saying, gently. “Are you alright?”  
   
Tony nods, wordlessly. He’s embarrassed. He just feels embarrassed. “I thought – “  
   
His voice breaks. He waves his hand. “I’m sorry,” he croaks. “You can all go back to bed. I got confused.”  
   
“I’ll sleep with you,” Natasha offers. “Just in case.”  
   
Clint clears his throat. He carefully leaves the shotgun at the end of the bed. “Just in case,” he says. “I have a spare, anyway.” He doesn’t meet Tony’s eyes.  
   
“Thanks,” Tony rasps.  
   
He hates how conciliatory they’re being. “Do you want some water?” Natasha asks. “A snack?”  
   
“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, cruelly. He shouldn’t have snapped. She’s trying to help him. But Tony has a flush all up his neck, and his heart is still beating too fast. He had thought – he had thought, for a long, awful second –  
   
“Okay,” Natasha says quietly. “Should we keep the light on?”  
   
A beat; Tony nods, surreptitious. “He didn’t mean it,” he mumbles. “I know he didn’t mean it.”  
   
“Probably not,” Natasha agrees, sliding into bed, pulling up the covers. “He’s been hurt too, you know. When he thought you were dead, I mean. He – “  
   
Tony frowns. “He what?”  
   
Natasha shakes her head. “I just mean, it was hard on him. All those months, no plan. Wakanda gone silent. He felt responsible. And he would talk about it. How you were dead, when you have no right to be. How you didn’t deserve it, ‘Earth’s greatest defender’. I think – all I’m saying, is you don’t know what it meant to him. To find you.”  
   
Tony doesn’t understand. “But why would he care?” He says, quietly. “We fought.”  
   
“Yeah,” Natasha says evasively. “You did. We should sleep, Tony.”  
   
“But I don’t understand what you mean?”  
   
Natasha sighs, slams her head against the pillow. “I mean that – he’s always cared about you, Tony. And when he thought you were gone, it upset him. More than it did, maybe, with others.”  
   
“Why, though?”  
   
Natasha sounds annoyed, sighing, rolling onto her side. “Why do you think?” She says, irritably.  
   
Tony lays his head down. Why does he think? He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware Clint seems like an asshole. I hope he was humanised a little in that last bit.
> 
> Your thoughts on how everything is shaping up are very important to me! Especially about how you feel Steve views Tony, and vice versa. Also, how Tony is coming across, and how he seems to feel about the whole situation would be interesting to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

He can hear Clint out in the yard, his arrows hitting straight targets. _Ka-cha thunk._ Stop, pick and arrow, draw the bow. And then again. _Ka-cha thunk._  
   
Tony is in the barn, ostentiably to ‘help out’ and make himself useful. Except Clint doesn’t have anything that needs fixing. They know as well as Tony that he just comes here to mope. The tractor doesn’t need repair. There are no rafters that need boarded up.  
   
The arrow sounds have stopped. He hears Clint call, ‘he’s in there’, and Steve’s murmured thanks. He smells him before he sees him. Something hesitant, timid. It’s reassuring. He can tell Steve is trying to telegraph his presence as much as he can, projecting, in case Tony freaks out again, which is nice, if not a little patronising.  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony states, grudgingly, not turning round. “I get it. You don’t need to crawl, I’m not going to scream if I see you.”  
   
“It was a natural reaction,” Steve placates, right off the bat. “You had every right – “  
   
“To scream like a bitch? Yeah, I got that, thanks.”  
   
“You’re not a – Jesus, Tony, anyone would have done the same.”  
   
“What, if they’d found you in their bed? Not fucking likely.” A beat. Tony throws some hay mindlessly at the ground. “I just – I wasn’t expecting you, is all,” he adds, quieter.  
   
“I came here to apologise.”  
   
“I figured.” Tony looks up. Steve’s shape is framed by the setting sun; he has to squint.  
   
“I’m – sorry.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“I really, really am. And – I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”  
   
“Good. Great.”  
   
Steve nods. Puts his hands in his pockets. “Alright then,” he says.  
   
“Yup.”  
   
He’s still nodding, now more slow. “I’ll just – I’ll just be going, then.”  
   
“You do that.”  
   
He turns. Starts trudging back to the house. “Except – “ Tony calls, abruptly, “except what’s that about? I mean, the sleep walking thing. Since when?”  
   
Steve halts. Turns. “I don’t know,” he says. “If I knew – I’d stop.” When Tony doesn’t rebuke him, he continues. “Since, uh. I guess since I – left home.”  
   
Tony raises an eyebrow.  
   
“Or rather – left here. The US. To go to Wakanda. Which is to say – since we had our – you know. When we had our fight.”  
   
“Our fight.”  
   
“Disagreement, legal – legal… quarrel.”  
   
“You hoping to find something?” Tony asks.  
   
“What?”  
   
“When you walk at night. What are you trying to find?”  
   
“Uh. Mostly I just – fall asleep on the couch. I made a sandwich once.” Steve’s cheeks have started to flush. “It’s not you,” he blurts, “it’s not that I was thinking of you, or that I wanted – it has nothing to do with you. Especially nothing to do with your whole – situation. No implant. And it definitely wasn’t to do with – I’m not a rapist. I’m not some kind of sicko, if I wanted to sleep with you I’d just ask – I mean – “  
   
“You should sit down,” Tony says, casually, “you’re talking yourself into knots, I’m scared you’re going to have an aneurysm. Please, be my guest. Pull up a hay bale.”  
   
“What I’m trying to say is – I don’t control it. I think my brain would have just… maybe it smelt you. And in my sleep, I got the wrong idea. I don’t think I wanted to – touch you, just to – just to – “  
   
“Snuggle.”  
   
“Yes! Yeah. Just to snuggle. I guess it’s been awhile, and you smell…”  
   
Steve trails off. _Impolite,_ Tony notes, raising his brows, but then Steve seems to be aware of it too. “I smell.” Tony repeats, flatly.  
   
“No. _Your_ smell. It’s just – strong, you know? Not in a bad way. In a good way. But I guess that’s what happens when you take out the implant.”  
   
“They drugged me. Gave me things. To make me smell – to make me this way.”  
   
Steve looks up at him. “Drugged you, huh?” He asks, evasively.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, and his throat is thick, suddenly. He glances away. “Among other things.”  
   
“You want to talk about those other things?”  
   
“Why?” Tony snaps, _snarling. “_ You want some more fodder for the wank bank, Steve?”  
   
“No,” Steve says, calmly. “You asked me to talk, I just thought you might like to talk, too.”  
   
Tony frowns. “You still haven’t explained,” he says, changing the subject. “You sleep walk now. Because of Siberia?”  
   
“Not because. Because of – a lot of things. I don’t know. I haven’t been sleeping great at all, to be honest with you.”  
   
“Not even with Barnes to keep you warm?”  
   
There’s a long, tense, stick silence. Steve is staring at the ground, 100-mile stare, distant. “I,” he starts, and then doesn’t finish.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tony says, quietly. “That was insensitive.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Steve says dully.  
   
“It’s not. I shouldn’t talk to you that way. Or about him like that, I mean.”  
   
Steve looks away. “I know you don’t believe me,” he says, “but I am strictly into omegas, Tony. I don’t do – betas, or alpha. I just don’t.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “I know. And that was a stupid thing for me to say. Do you accept my apology?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Well, there we go then. I’m sorry, too. About what happened. It’s just bad luck, Steve, 50% and he was the one to go – “  
   
“You’re not actually upset, are you?” Steve isn’t accusing, just curious. “You don’t actually care.”  
   
Tony doesn’t know what to say. “We’ve lost a lot,” he says, neutrally. “I care about everyone who was dusted.”  
   
“But, uh,” Steve is looking at his hands, like he’s afraid to say what he wants to say. “You didn’t – necessarily, I mean, you didn’t – lose anyone. That close to you. Which isn’t an attack! I’m saying, you got lucky, is all.”  
   
Tony sours. “You been talking to Clint, Steve?”  
   
“No! No. I just want to have a discussion about it. It’s hard. You did get lucky, in more than one sense – “  
   
“I was stranded with a homicidal alien. I had to build and repair a junkyard ship. I travelled through space for _five months._ And when I landed, and thought I was safe, I was imprisoned and drugged and tortured and tagged, like an _animal.”_  
   
“I know, Tony,” Steve says gently. “I didn’t mean to say you haven’t suffered, or that – you haven’t suffered more than some, in fact. Just that at least you get to know Rhodey and Pepper are still alive, and no matter what, they’re safe.”  
   
There’s something twisting in Tony’s belly. Turning over and over, like a snake that wants to crawl up his chest, slither past his lips. “But there was the kid,” he blurts.  
   
Steve stares at him, concerned. “Excuse me? There – a child?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “No, not – not my child. I mean, I’d like to think he – Spiderman.” Tony still doesn’t like the name, but can appreciate it for what it is: a kid, playing at being older than he is, and the youthful innocence of him makes his heart lurch out of his chest.  
   
“Spiderman?”  
   
“The _kid,”_ Tony presses, annoyed. “You met him in Germany, remember? Red and blue, stole your shield.”  
   
Steve frowns. “How old are we talking?”  
   
Tony sighs. “Does it matter?”  
   
“I – no, not really.”  
   
“He’s a sophomore.” _Was,_ Tony corrects.  
   
“He’s gone?”  
   
“He followed me,” Tony says, thinking he should tell someone. He should commit these acts of bravery to memory, speak them so no one can forget, the memory of him is diffused and scattered like the ashes of his being. “Hitched a ride on the doughnut in the sky – literally, just jumped on, flew on up. Nearly died, of course, but maybe you don’t have sense at that age, I don’t know.”  
   
“He’s a sophomore, though.”  
   
“Yeah. He was.” Tony continues. “He just wanted to help. I tried to send him back, but… what good would it have done? We were all going to die anyway. But I wasn’t happy about it, don’t think I just let a child fight Thanos with no ground. He wanted to, and – and I tried to respect it.”  
   
“But he was dusted.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, and his voice seems to give out under him, cracking. He clears his throat. “Yeah, he was. And you know what? He felt every second of it. So, how’s that for – for – “  
   
“Tony,” Steve says gently.  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony snaps, rubbing at his eye with his sleeve. “Just – I don’t want sympathy.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve tells him, reasonably.  
   
“I just wanted you to know. No one is ever going to know his name, and no one’s ever going to remember him. I just – it’s been a rough year.”  
   
“A year that never happened,” Steve says. “If we’re lucky.”  
   
“Luck hasn’t really been on our side, Steve.”  
   
“Fair point.”  
   
“He was omega,” Tony blurts. “The kid.”  
   
“Oh,” Steve frowns, unsure of what to say.  
   
“But it’s different for him, you know? He’s from a generation – it wouldn’t even occur to him that people might stop him from doing things, or being something, just because of his breed.”  
   
“It’s not like that for you?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder, tucks his knees up to his chest. “I don’t know,” he says, “maybe I used to think so. I thought, I went to college at 15. I was CEO, and no one cared. A few people were rattled at Iron Man, but they were so few and far between. I thought it was done, that we were modern, now.”  
   
“Not any more, though.”  
   
“Now, I just think they were all waiting for their moment. All those alphas who shook my hand. All that time, they were waiting for the day they could correct it, put the natural order in place. They only ever paid lip-service, Steve. And now, I don’t know how many of you are good, and how many of you are perfectly happy to see them round us up like cattle, breed us, spit out your stupid, fucking babies.”  
   
“You know,” Steve starts hesitantly, “you know I wouldn’t do that, right? I don’t think like that.”  
   
Tony gives him a scathing look. “It’s not about _you.”_  
   
“It’s just – you said ‘your’, so I thought – “  
   
“Yeah, ‘your’ as in – all of you, all alphas, I don’t know which ones are good or bad. Fucking hell, I wasn’t making a dig at you, can’t I even – “  
   
“I don’t want you to think that we’re all out to get you, Tony. I’m not. Rhodes isn’t. Thor wouldn’t. I understand it’s hard for you now – “  
   
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony blasts, incredulous. “Jesus Christ, Steve, I was just venting! It’s not _about you!”_  
   
“Oh God,” Steve says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – God, I can’t get it right at all.”  
   
“No! You can’t! Just – shut up! Just shut up!”  
   
Steve looks sad. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, again. “I’m sorry I can’t say the right things. I just – want you to know that you’re safe here. That you don’t need to be afraid of me, or anyone else. We’re with you. You’ve given us hope.”  
   
Tony swallows. “Alright then,” he says, “good.”  
   
Steve is threading his fingers. “You know,” he says, staring at them, “I wouldn’t be – I mean, if you ever wanted – if you ever had – “  
   
He sighs, seems to get tired of beating round the bush. “I slept well, next to you,” he says frankly, “I think it’s just about being next to another person. I think it helps.”  
   
“Yeah, it does,” Tony agrees, cautiously.  
   
“Did it help you?”  
   
“Until I woke up and saw you next to me? Sure.”  
   
“Well – if you ever wanted to. My door is always open. For our – mental health, you know? It’s like sharing a sleeping bag when you’re cold, it’s just common sense.”  
   
“Steve…”  
   
“Right, I know. I just thought – if you ever wanted.”  
   
If _Tony_ ever wanted. He hadn’t noticed before; he’s been wrapped up in himself, recently. But Steve has bags under his eyes, bruising. Tony has never known him to be in anything other than peak physical health.  
   
He thinks, it’s not so much for Tony’s sake, even if it makes it easier for Steve to accept if he lies to himself.  
   
“Did you come here to ask me that, Steve?”  
   
“No. I came here to apologise. And to make sure – I want you to be okay, Tony,” he says gently. “I want you to be better. What they did to you… I don’t know. We don’t have time for bad blood.”  
   
“You think I don’t know that?”  
   
“I think – “ Steve sighs, ducks his head. “I can’t believe, after all that, after everything you went through, you had to be locked in a cell and tortured the way they tortured you. So that’s all. I wanted to come and apologise, and I wanted you to know – I’m on your side. I’m on _your_ side.”  
   
Tony’s throat feels scratchy, for some reason. The sympathy – no, the _empathy,_ is overwhelming. To have someone – Steve of all people – sit there and say he cares for him, he wants him to be better. It’s more than he’s been given in months. Years.  
   
“It wasn’t they,” Tony says tremulously as Steve turns to leave. “It was a ‘he’. He tortured me.”  
   
“Who?” Steve is framed by the sun.  
   
“Standing.” Tony says he’s name, he’s unafraid of it here. “He was the one who – he was the one. And I see him every night. Sometimes there are other people, other places, but it’s always him.” He chokes out a laugh. “I fought Thanos, you know that? I went to toe to toe. I made him bleed. And – and how pathetic am I, how pathetic is that, that the one man who haunts me isn’t a Titan, a world-breaker, he’s an – old man, with a paunch, and bad breath. How funny is that?”  
   
Steve considers. “I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he says.  
   
“You must think – you must think I’m one pathetic bitch, huh?”  
   
“No,” Steve says, sadly. “I don’t.”  
   
Tony doesn’t care. He rolls his jaw, rests his brow on his fist. Like this, with his head ducked, he can feel Standing’s fingers on the back of his neck. He claps his hand there, squeezes at the skin, digs his nails into flesh until the itch goes away. And when he looks up, Steve has gone.  
   
   
After dinner, there’s Clint.  
   
Tony is playing solitaire. He folds card after card on the table, not really thinking about the game – his mind is on time stones, and how to harness its power without a gauntlet.  
   
Clint is washing the remains of dinner. He seems angry, but Tony isn’t going to press it. He has other things on his mind without having to deal with Barton in a dark mood.  
   
“So what was it,” Clint asks him abruptly, not looking round. “Did Steve try to fuck you, or what?”  
   
Tony frowns at the cards, shuffles. “No,” he says, putting down an ace. “He didn’t touch me, I told you.”  
   
Clint sucks his teeth. “You know, maybe now isn’t the _best_ time for you to try and get your rocks off. Especially not in my daughter’s bed.”  
   
Tony looks up. “What the fuck?”  
   
“Don’t fuck people in my daughter’s bed. I get it, you’re all horny because of what they gave you. We don’t have time for – interpersonal drama on top of everything else.”  
   
“Okay. Except, I didn’t _ask_ him to my bed. You must know that, on some level, right? You must realise that just because I’m omega doesn’t mean I’m – I’m throwing out hormonal whammies and shaking my ass in every alpha’s direction.”  
   
Clint shrugs. “I’m just saying. We don’t have time for the messiness of it all, Tony. So don’t go dragging Steve into your mess. And don’t do it in my daughter’s – “  
“Your daughter’s dead, Clint,” Tony says, shortly. Cruelly. He goes back to his cards.  
   
“Don’t be a bitch,” Clint spits, “it doesn’t suit you, Tony.”  
   
Tony bristles. Something just – gets his back up, the hairs at his nape rising. “Excuse me?” He retorts, twisting in his chair.  
   
“I said, don’t be a bitch,” Clint replies, smirking slightly at the thrill of getting a rise. “Have you forgotten how?”  
   
Tony goes cold. “Shut your mouth, Clint.”  
   
“ _Shut your mouth,”_ Clint mocks, slamming his coffee into the sink, washing it roughly, without care. “What, they diddled your head too? You used to be sharper, I think. Or maybe that was just the image, you are so _very_ good at projecting…”  
   
Tony is standing. “I said, _shut your mouth,_ Clint.”  
   
Clint looks over his shoulder. “Huh,” he says, “you gonna try and pull rank on me Tony? Play alpha?”  
   
“Stop it,” Tony says, plainly, petulantly. “Stop saying those things, you know -- ”  
   
“Don’t like to hear it, huh?” Clint sighs. “I can’t change the truth, Tono.”  
   
Tony’s eye twitches. “Don’t call me that, I’ve told you not to call me that.”  
   
“Maybe I don’t need to listen to you anymore,” Clint mutters, filling the mug up with coffee, tipping in vodka from a nearly finished bottle. “Hey, there’s an idea – I don’t have to _listen_ to you anymore, Tony.”  
   
“Maybe you should,” Tony spits, “you’re not doing so hot on your own.”  
   
“Nah,” Clint says, sipping. “I reckon it’s your turn to obey, Tony.”  
   
He thinks, he’s picked up the vodka bottle, and he’s definitely swinging it at Clint’s head. He misses, only because Clint ducks; still, it’s satisfying to hear it crack against the wall.  
   
He lunges, and Clint fights back. At the end of the day, Tony is weaker, he’s smaller, he’s less trained. It’s not even that hard for Clint to get him against the dinner table on his back, one hand on his throat. Maybe, once upon a time, he could have stood a chance. But now? Eh. He’s out of practice, out of shape. Literally, out of shape.  
   
“Are you fucking crazy?” Clint snarls, “You could have killed me!”  
   
Tony snaps his teeth in Clint’s face. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he grits, “I’m not a dog, I don’t obey shit.”  
   
“ _Clearly.”_  
   
“Aww,” Tony mocks, “big strong Clint. You feel good, that you got one over on an omega? Big strong al – oh wait. No. For all your talk, you’re just a fucking _beta._ You don’t even have a place – “  
   
Clint’s grip tightens. “At least I’m not a leaky little bitch like you.”  
   
Tony snorts. “You’re pathetic,” he rasps, “posturing, sticking out your chest. What would Laura think, huh? If she saw you strangling an omega on your kitchen table – “  
   
“Shut your fucking mouth.”  
   
“What would the kids think, Clint? What kind of model are you, huh? Is this the man you are now? The kind of guy that gets one over on a poor, defenceless O – “  
   
Clint releases him like he’s toxic. “You’re not _defenceless,”_ he mutters. “You wouldn’t have attacked me, otherwise.”  
   
“Then fucking quit it,” Tony snaps. “Enough. No more. Either you treat me like an omega, or you treat me like an alpha, you don’t have it both ways.”  
   
Clint glares at him. Huffs a few times, shrugs his shoulders like he’s fixing for a fight. And then:  
   
“Alright.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“I said, alright. Fine. Okay. I won’t have it both ways. I’ll lay off.”  
   
Tony stares at him. He wants to recoil, wrinkle his nose, but his hindbrain isn’t letting him back down. “You’ll leave me alone,” he presses, “just – let me get on with my life.”  
   
“Yes. Whatever.”  
   
“I’m trying to fix this. To fix you.”  
   
“Fix me?” Clint asks.  
   
“What was done to you,” Tony clarifies. “I want to fix it. It’s all I want. And – the fights we had then are the fights we had. We don’t have time for bad blood,” he says, repeating Steve’s words.  
   
Clint grunts. “Yeah,” he seems to agree, turning away.  
   
Tony grabs him, his forearm. “I mean it,” he urges. “No more bad blood. We can’t afford it.”  
   
Clint shakes him loose. He rifles around a cabinet for a new bottle of scotch. And he leaves.  
   
   
“Tony,” Standing says, “are you ready?”  
   
Tony is muzzled, he can’t reply. “Mmm-mm,” he tries to protest, frantic, eyes wide, pulling at the restraints. _No!_ He’s thinking. _No! No! No!_  
   
No one listens to him. He gets ignored. He’s helpless. He can’t stop it. He tells himself: it’s just biology. It doesn’t mean anything. It probably won’t even hurt. In and out, it’s just someone putting themselves in you, animals do it all the time. You don’t need to be like this, you don’t. Be brave. Be better. Don’t be such a fucking _bitch._  
   
He hates they can all see him, inside him. All the doctors and nurses and techs and Standing himself, stroking the inside of Tony’s thigh. Tony tries to close his legs, tries to free his wrists. “Let’s get him in,” Standing says, and the alpha is –  
   
Tony feels viscerally sick, heart panting, sweating. He sits up in bed too fast, gets whiplash, disorientates himself. He can’t place the floor, the wallpaper, the curtains. He gets confused, he forgets.  
   
He has to tuck himself against the headboard, count down from ten, over and over. _You are Tony, you are safe,_ he says inwardly. _No one will get you here. This is Clint’s farmhouse. Steve is here,_ he tells himself guiltily, _you can trust him. Natasha is here. Bruce is here._  
   
The knock at his door is amplified somehow, sending his heart rate spiralling once more. He jerks too hard, hits his head against the wall, throat closed up in terror. “Who?!” Is all he can manage, voice croaky and hoarse, rasping.  
   
Soft blond hair, poking from behind the door. “Tony?” Steve asks, quietly. He’s averting his eyes – he does that now, in case Tony isn’t _decent._ Used to be, Tony had a chest like any other man, but now…  
   
“I’m fine,” Tony chokes. “I’m fine.”  
   
“You were – I just thought maybe you were hurt, or – “  
   
“I’m not. It was a bad dream. I’m fine.”  
   
A beat. “Okay,” Steve says, slowly. “I was just heading for bed, now. I heard, uh – there was some disturbance, earlier. You don’t know if – “  
   
“Just Clint. He was aiming at bottles again,” Tony lies, ragged.  
   
“Oh. Well that’s fine, then.” Steve hovers a bit longer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tony.”  
   
“Yeah, Steve. Tomorrow.”  
   
He spends hours tossing and turning on the mattress. He can’t get Standing’s hands off of his skin, or his voice from out of his ears. In the brief, sticky interludes where he slips into sleep, he’s met by gauntlets and rock and dust. Standing haunts his waking moments, Thanos greets his dreams. There’s no rest to be found.  
   
Not here.  
   
If anyone asks, later, he’ll say he was sleep-walking. His body makes the decision for him, pulling him up from the bed, setting him down the hallway. It’s calling out for him – crying out. For safety, or just some security. Just to feel like he’s safe, for one night.  
   
“Steve?” Tony rasps. “Steve, can I – can I sleep here?”  
   
“Tony?” Steve calls, drowsily, raising his head. “Tony, you’re – here. You alright?”  
   
“Can I stay here?” Tony repeats, whispering.  
   
“Can you – oh, Jesus. Oh, Tony, you smell all – are you okay?”  
   
“No,” he says, honestly. “Could I just – I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, I swear.”  
   
“C’mere,” Steve is saying, voice sleep-laden, scenting warm, fuzzy. He’s pulling back the duvet. “Sure, sweetie, just – c’mere. You have a nightmare? Is’okay,” he sighs, pulling Tony close instinctively, without thinking, no awkwardness. “I have them too,” he says, smacking his lips.  
   
Tony buries his head in Steve’s chest, exhales, shuddering. _You’re okay,_ he thinks, except he doesn’t even think it, just knows it, instinctively. “Poor boy,” Steve is mumbling sleepily, stroking the back of Tony’s head with a disoriented hand. “Poor poor boy, having nightmares, having…”  
   
He drops off to sleep. Tony lies there for a time, revelling in his warmth, in his aftershave, his natural scent. He feels safe. He feels like home.  
   
   
“Cute,” someone is saying, “very cute.”  
   
Tony frowns, rolls onto his back. “Huh?” He mumbles. He had been warm, before – now he’s not. He doesn’t like it, and he’s still so tired. “What’s it?” He slurs.  
   
“I said, cute,” Natasha says, dead-pan, arms crossed and standing at the foot of the bed. “Aren’t you both just adorable?”  
   
Tony frowns again, looks to his right, and – Steve is there, still sleeping soundly, one arm thrown over Tony’s waist. “Oh,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Yeah. I forgot.”  
   
“Like I say: cute. You need to rise and shine, though, you’re wanted downstairs. Bruce has breakfast, just take some to the barn.”  
   
“The barn?” Tony yawns, stretching. The floorboards are cold under his feet. “What’s in the barn?”  
   
“A surprise,” Natasha says dryly.  
   
“Good one or a bad one?”  
   
She seems to consider. “Good one,” she says eventually.  
   
“You don’t sound sure.”  
   
“Just go. And wear something comfy.”  
   
Later, bagel still in mouth and wearing one of Steve’s over-large sweatshirts, Tony troops down to the barn. At the house, Steve is still sleeping. Tony will smell of him, now. His shirt is all him, vaguely strawberry and soil-scented.  
   
Don’t make it messy, Tony.  
   
Clint is pushing open one of the large wooden doors. “Stark,” he says, stiffly, not meeting his eye. “Good morning.”  
   
“Are you my surprise?” Tony asks flatly, taking a crunchy bite out of the bagel.  
   
“Yeah. I guess.”  
   
“Well boo. I don’t want it.”  
   
Clint is rolling up his sleeves. “I was thinking – after last night. You don’t really, uh – you don’t really know how to fight.”  
   
“I know how to fight,” Tony tells him, short.  
   
“You did. Back when you were…”  
   
A long, awkward silence.  
   
“… you know. Back when you had more mass. You’ve got a lot less brute strength to work with now. You can’t just rely on hitting people over the head with vodka bottles.”  
   
“Right,” Tony intones, “what if there aren’t any bottles.”  
   
“What if there isn’t _anything._ I would have choked the life out of you, easy.”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. “You’re beta,” he says. “Shouldn’t Natasha be teaching me this?”  
   
“She can, if you want her too.”  
   
“But?”  
   
“But – I wanted to teach you,” Clint says, not meeting his eyes. “I want to make sure you – I just want to make sure you can do it.”  
   
Tony’s eyes are practically slits he’s so suspicious. “Why?”  
   
“Because.” Clint says shortly, turning to walk into the barn.  
   
“You know,” Tony calls after him, “normal people just say sorry.”  
   
“I’m not apologising for anything.” Clint’s arm strikes out in front of Tony’s face; he walks into it, smacks his nose on his fist.  
   
“Uh, _ouch.”_  
   
“Pay more attention.”  
   
“You just want an excuse to beat me up,” Tony mutters, rubbing his face.  
   
“I don’t usually get joy out of beating up people who can’t defend themselves.”  
   
“And yet. Here I am, little old me, with a nose bleed.”  
   
“Your nose isn’t bleeding,” Clint scoffs, throwing back a hay bale. “And I’m not beating up an omega. You told me to choose. If you don’t want to be omega, I won’t treat you that way, but that means I’m not pulling punches. It doesn’t do you any favours.”  
   
“Well okay then.”  
   
“Good. Stand over there,” Clint orders, rolling his neck and cracking his shoulders. “I don’t need to tell you that you’re at a significant disadvantage physically.”  
   
Tony rolls his eyes. “Thanks, I was aware.”  
   
“Yeah, well you need to _be_ aware. Constantly. Alpha and beta men have balls that hurt like a bitch when kicked – you have that, plus a nape that will send you to ground if it’s pinched, and glands that’ll trip you up if their hit. Not to mention you’re still putting out enough scent to attract any alpha to do their worst.”  
   
“So what do you propose I do?”  
   
“First and foremost, your friend is the element of surprise. Obviously,” Clint continues, “you’re not going to have that fighting me. But out there, it’s probably the best chance you have.”  
   
“You’re not filling me with optimism, Clint.”  
   
That’s seems to eke a tiny smile out of him. “You know how to fight. I’m not here to teach you basics. I’m trying to scratch out and replace ten years of combat experience with something more -- appropriate.”  
   
Tony decides to lunge for the element of surprise. He’s glaring, and then his left fist is coming up to slam into Clint’s gut; he’s not quick enough to block it (good, he deserves it), and he only just manages to stop himself from doubling over, still giving Tony a few extra seconds to wrap his fingers round the back of his neck and jam his knee into his chest.  
   
He’s crowing inwardly when Clint grips his knees and trips him up, flat on his back. He pushes forward, Tony tries to hold him back, gripping his shoulders. It’s not enough, _he’s_ not enough – his arms start to shake at Clint bears down, his own hands wrapping around Tony’s throat.  
   
He doesn’t squeeze. “You’d be dead,” he says quietly. “See?”  
   
Tony is released. “Do it again,” he grunts, rolling away. “You just – you caught me by surprise, that’s all.”  
   
“I didn’t. You did. And I still beat you, because I’m stronger than you, understand? You’re not Natasha, you don’t have a lifetime of combat experience to back you up. Whatever moves Steve taught you aren’t going to work anymore, and this isn’t a boxing ring. Just – just listen. I’m trying to give you a shot.”  
   
So, Tony has to listen.  
   
Go for the eyes. Use your teeth. When possible, avoid a fight at all – Tony is clever, and the snatchers will think he’s weak. Never take on more than one aggressor when you can avoid it. Fight dirty – no, _dirtier._ Use tricks if you have to: fake an injury, play hurt. Best of all, use what you’ve been given; most snatchers are under strict authority not to harm livestock. Use your brain instead, because Tony is probably smarter than all of them combined.  
   
When all else fails? Belly up, neck bared. You might get beat on, and they might rough you up then, but they won’t kill you. Not if you surrender.  
   
He shows him how best to wiggle out of someone’s grasp, and how to wind them hard enough to get away. He tells him to keep his nails long, and not to be afraid to think outside the box. Which, in Clint’s words, means not being afraid to take a bite out of an alpha’s throat, if that’s what it takes.  
   
“Go again,” Clint is saying, on their twelth spar of the day. Tony is exhausted, and hot. He’s not in terrible shape – if you excuse the hormonal swings and sudden loss of mass – but Clint is a hard task-master and does this for a living. Tony longs for a suit – God, he misses his suit. How satisfying would it be to just be able to blast and incinerate his enemies instead of having to rely on cheap tricks –  
   
Tony ends up on his back.  
   
“And again,” Clint presses. “Resist the urge to go on the defensive, you could have easily got my arm if you hadn’t blocked your mouth with your hands.”  
   
Tony braces his hands on his knees. “Jesus,” he pants, “Clint – I mean, Barton – how much longer?”  
   
“Until you get a good hit,” Clint tells him, slapping him on the back. “C’mon. Up. Go again.”  
   
“Don’t push him too hard,” Steve is saying. Tony looks over his shoulder; he’s frowning, and holding a tray. “If he passes out – “  
   
“I won’t pass out,” Tony snaps, suddenly aware he’s both starving and thirsty beyond belief. “Is that water?”  
   
“Thought you might be thirsty,” Steve says, levelly. He’s looking at him, purposefully, like he’s _trying_ not to look away. He clears his throat. “I, uh. Brought snacks, too.”  
   
“No snacks, you’ll get a cramp,” Clint calls over, wrapping his hands.  
   
Tony can sense Steve’s eyes on him as he downs the water; head back, neck bared, sweaty. “Having fun?” He asks, closed off.  
   
“Not really.”  
   
“Did you, uh.” He looks up. “Did you sleep well?” He asks quietly.  
   
Tony regards him for a long second. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I did.”  
   
Steve nods. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I – “  
   
“Stark,” Clint calls. “Front and centre. Let’s see if you can actually get a hit this time.”  
   
Tony turns, irritated. “I’m having a conversation.”  
   
“Steve’s not going anywhere,” Clint tells him. “You can make the eyes at each other some other time,” he adds, muttering.  
   
Steve narrows his eyes, squares his jaw. “It’s okay,” Tony says. “Thanks for the water.”  
   
“The water,” Steve agrees, tracking him across the floor.  
   
No disrespect, but Tony feels he is smarter than Clint Barton. Not that Clint’s stupid – everyone is stupid compared to Tony. And it shouldn’t be this hard to beat him. He scratched Thanos once. Okay, he had a nano-suit, but still.  
   
It’s the same principle. Mind over matter. While Tony’s body has always been weak compared to the various trained assassins, aliens, accidents of science and super-soldiers around him, what he’s lacked in strength he’s always made up for in technique.  
   
Clint will strike first. Because Tony is woozy on his feet, he’ll be thinking he can take him down easy. Highest probability of trying to swipe his feet out from under him – could Tony dodge? Jump? If Clint gets him on the floor, it’s no contest, he’ll lose. But if he could keep him on his feet…  
   
“Hold on,” Tony pants, waving his hand dramatically. “I can barely walk, just – give me a sec, would you?”  
   
Clint smirks. “Snatchers don’t wait, Tony.”  
   
“Yes, Clint, you’re very similar in that regard, you have a glowing future as the corrupt arm of the state ahead of you,” he snaps, holding his side, faking a cramp. “Just – just wait – “  
   
Predictably, Clint doesn’t. He goes for Tony’s legs, and Tony is expecting it; he wouldn’t be able to hold off Clint’s strike on his own, but he can unbalance him in return, dipping to simply catch his ankle in his grip and tip him backwards.  
   
“Oof,” Steve says helpfully from the side-lines.  
   
Clint jumps up; Tony goes in for a scratch; Clint blocks his blow; Tony brings up his knee to his balls; Clint jumps back; Tony brings up his knee, as if aiming for another shot at his groin  
   
And Clint focuses on blocking, leaves his face open and clear. All it takes is one scratch, harder than he intended – his nails aren’t sharp enough to cut deep, but they leave four scratches, narrowly avoiding his eye.  
   
Tony laughs, giddy, like an excited kid. “Hah!” He says. “Tag, you’re it.”  
   
Steve is kind enough to give him a little clap, shaking his head with bemusement, like he can’t understand why such a small wound would be such a big deal. That’s okay. He doesn’t get it, and he doesn’t have to.  
   
“Hah,” Clint agrees, laughing, winded, “you fight like a bitch now, Tony.”  
   
He says it fondly, in the colloquial way that people do. He doesn’t mean it maliciously, not at all. Tony knows this, intellectually; there’s nothing wrong with what Clint just said. He’s just – sharing in a joke between friends.  
   
Standing had said, _you fight like a bitch now, Tony,_ that time he came to strip him and touch him. Tony had hit him, too; right across his face, red lines, same as Clint. There’s an itch on the back of his neck. “What does that mean?” He asks.  
   
Clint is smiling, dabbing at his face and looking at a small drop of blood on his fingers. “You’ve finally cracked it,” he says, brushing his hand on his shirt, looking up. “Congratulations.”  
   
“I’ve finally cracked what?”  
   
Steve’s claps trail off. The laughter has stopped, and Clint’s smile is unsure. “The – just that, you did it. It’s good, for the first time, you outsmarted me. Put you up against anyone else and you stand a real – “  
   
“I outsmarted you? Is that – is it surprising, Clint?”  
   
Clint frowns. “I mean – I just meant – “  
   
“It’s surprising, huh,” Tony says dangerously, stepping into his space. “It must be. What, that I – that I could get a tiny scratch? That I _outsmarted_ you, and all I got was a tiny _scratch?!”_  
   
“Tony, Tony,” Steve is saying, suddenly there, between them. “Woah, c’mon now. He didn’t mean anything by it – “  
   
Tony slaps his hands away. “Leave me alone,” he snaps, “I can fight my own battles, Rogers. Just because I – it doesn’t mean I’m some kind of – some kind of damsel. I don’t need you here always, hanging over me like a fucking fart.”  
   
Steve recoils. “Tony,” Clint says, levelly, “I mean it. I didn’t – want to offend you, or – it’s just a saying. It was a compliment, I – no, that’s wrong. It was _meant_ to be a compliment – “  
   
Tony pushes him. “Do it again,” he says, harsh. “Fight me. I’ll do it properly this time, we’ll see who the bitch is.”  
   
“No, Tony,” Clint says lowly, “I’m not going to – “  
   
Tony pushes him again. “Fight me!” He demands, and he can hear the strained, harsh quality in his voice. “If I fight like a bitch – let me _show you_ how I fight – “  
   
“I’m not going to fight you, Stark.”  
   
“Do it,” Tony insists, a strange buzz in his brain, like angry bees, wasps, the stinging and prickling running down his neck. He slams his hands against Clint’s chest, watches him docilly take it, arms still by his sides.  
   
It infuriates him. Tony is so small a threat, so pathetic, Barton doesn’t even feel the need to protect himself. “Fight me,” he demands again, sound building in the back of his throat, slapping his hands against Barton’s shoulders, punching into his chest. “Do it. Do it, c’mon!”  
   
He screams at him with frustration, anger. “Why won’t you fucking hit me!” He asks, slamming his hands ineffectually as hard as he can. Barton does raise his arms, but only to protect against the blows, stumbling back. “It was good enough last night, what’s changed? Huh, Barton? What’s fucking changed?! You said you wouldn’t treat me like an omega, so why won’t you fucking _fight back – “_  
   
“Tony, enough,” Steve says in that low, authoritative voice. “Stop. Stop it.”  
   
He’s blocking Tony’s way, all he can see is Steve’s big broad chest, and he bangs his fists against his ribs to try and get past. “ _Coward!”_ He screams. “ _You’re a coward!_ Hiding behind an alpha, like a _coward!”_  
   
His eyesight is blurry. “Move,” he grunts at Steve, shoving his shoulder against him, but Steve just holds each of his wrists, like it’s easy, which it is.  
   
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says gently. “Tony, please. You don’t want to hurt Clint any more than he wants to hurt you.”  
   
The back of his throat is tight. He’s thirsty, he realises. “Get out of my way,” he croaks, still trying to slam himself against the weight of Steve, to push him down.  
   
“No,” Steve says simply.  
   
Tony kicks at him. He snaps his teeth, and throws his body around, desperately. “Move,” he grits, and screams. “Get out of my way, get out – let me go, and get out of my fucking way – “  
   
Steve doesn’t. And Tony slams his head against his shoulder, moves his body any way he can to eliminate the threat. But Steve is immovable. And Tony is still screaming.  
   
“Let me go,” he can hear himself saying, miserably, desperately, far away. “Let me go, please let me go.”  
   
Steve’s grip on his wrists loosen. He tugs himself free, stumbles to the side, tries to throw himself at Clint who is – gone. No longer in the barn. He whips his head from side to side, wild. “Where did he go?” He demands, voice rasping. “Huh? Where did that little beta coward go?”  
   
“He left, Tony.”  
   
“Tell him to come back. Tell him to – I’m going to kill him. No, I’m going to – I’m going to show him. No one touches me like that, no one, you understand? Do you understand?”  
   
Steve has put his hands in his pockets. “Touch you, Tony?”  
   
Tony opens his mouth. Shuts it again.  
   
“Did Clint touch you, Tony?”  
   
“No,” he says, confused at the words coming out of his mouth. “No, he – I – of course not.”  
   
“You said so, though. Just now. You said, no one touches you like that.”  
   
“I meant – fights me, I – I think.” Tony trails off.  
   
Steve is closer now. He’s handing him something, a – tissue. Folded into a square. He must have brought it when he brought the snacks. It’s exactly the thoughtful kind of thing that someone like Steve would do.  
   
Tony stares at it, and realises his eyes are wet. He wipes them, quickly.  
   
Steve doesn’t mention it.  
   
“You want a protein bar?” He asks quietly, holding one out, unopened.  
   
Tony swallows hard. “Sure,” he mutters, not meeting Steve’s gaze.  
   
“I have more water.”  
   
“Thanks.”  
   
Steve passes him a bottle and drags over a hay bale. “You must be tired,” he says, “why don’t you sit?”  
   
Tony does, gratefully. The protein bar is disgusting, and he eats it mechanically, chewing and chasing it down with water.  
   
And Steve – Steve brushes damp hair off his sweaty brow, back onto his head.  
   
Tony pauses. “What are you doing?” He asks, reservedly. His eyes follow Steve’s movement, looming above him.  
   
His face is flushed. “Nothing. Nothing, sorry, I – your hair was just in your eyes. Sorry.”  
   
Tony grunts. “You don’t need to apologise,” he mutters. And then: “You can do it again, if you like.”  
   
He does.  
   
After some time, he says: “You know Clint didn’t mean it.”  
   
“I know,” Tony replies, quietly.  
   
“But you did mention – last night. Did something happen?”  
   
“We had a disagreement. It was nothing. Forget it.”  
   
Steve doesn’t look like he wants to forget it. “It’s just, you were upset last night.”  
   
“I wasn’t upset.”  
   
“You came to me.”  
   
Tony looks past him. “Is it going to be a problem?” He asks, shortly. He’s not able to take rejection right now.  
   
“No.”  
   
“Good.” He turns back to the protein bad, plays with the wrapping. “I made a real fool of myself just now, huh.”  
   
“It’s okay. Clint will understand.”  
   
“No, he won’t. He’s not a very understanding guy.”  
   
“If he hadn’t understood, he would have hit you back. He didn’t.” Steve pauses. “You’re allowed to not be okay.”  
   
“No. I’m not.”  
   
Steve doesn’t agree or disagree. He stands. “You probably want to shower,” he says, “I shouldn’t keep you.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony concurs, clearing his throat. “I’m just – gonna clean up in here, a bit. And then I have some planning to do, need to – think of some way to synthesize and infinity gauntlet, you know?”  
   
“I’ll tell the others to leave you alone then,” Steve says knowingly. “If you’re not down, Bruce can just bring you up dinner.”  
   
“That might be nice,” Tony says, still avoiding his eyes. They’re getting good at this, him and Steve; saying what needs to be said, without ever uttering the words.  
   
   
Later.  
   
Early hours, when Tony finally puts down his pen and changes into bed clothes. In the hall, it’s dark. Tony brushes his teeth, washes down his face with cool water. He can hear the footsteps up the stairs. He closes the tap. Dries his face.  
   
Leaving the bathroom, he silently shuts the door behind him. Steve is already there, waiting, but pretending not to be. “You should be asleep,” he says, quietly.  
   
“Couldn’t,” Tony tells him. “I was working.”  
   
Steve is close. Tony can smell him. Neutral, clean. Underlying it all, his natural scent: something surprisingly sweet, almost feminine. Maybe strawberries.  
   
“I,” he says, “should go.”  
   
“It’s okay,” Tony says, quietly. “You can stay.”  
   
Steve repeats it. “I should go,” he says, not moving.  
   
“I’d rather you didn’t.”  
   
Steve opens his mouth, like he’s about to protest; it melts into a smile. “Right,” he says. “I – hope I’m not intruding.”  
   
Tony pushes off from the wall, steps a little closer into Steve’s space. Their noses could be touching. “You’re not.”  
   
“About today…”  
   
“I was going to say thank you,” Tony interrupts, quickly. “I wanted to say thank you. For talking me down.”  
   
“I didn’t, not really.”  
   
“You did.”  
   
Steve wets his lip. Tony is so certain. Steve is so kind. He’s tipping back his chin. Looking up.  
   
“I don’t want to upset you,” Steve whispers. “I don’t know if I should say.”  
   
“What?” Tony murmurs. He feels hazy. Like he’s covered in a blanket, tucked in a velvet cocoon. If he could just lean forward –  
   
“You’re really pretty,” Steve says, flushing. “I know you don’t want it. But I just thought you should know. In case you – thought otherwise. That your body is wrong. It isn’t.”  
   
The haze drips downwards, into his stomach, pools there. It mixes with two pinpricks of heat on his chest. “You think that? Really?”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve tells him, voice quiet, calm, despite his blushing cheeks. “But I wasn’t going to say. In case…”  
   
“In case I tried to beat you again?”  
   
Steve snorts. “Yeah,” he says, scenting happy. “In case.”  
   
“Man with a plan. Attack it from all angles, right?”  
   
“You? No. You’re – hard to plan for.”  
   
“Is that a good thing?”  
   
“I think so,” Steve says, warmly.  
   
Tony could pull away. _This is inappropriate,_ he thinks. People are dead. They’re on the run. This is – on the long list of mistakes he’s made – going to be up there at the top. But Tony has been so cold, lately. He’s been scared. He hasn’t been sleeping, and his body isn’t his, and he’s spent five months locked in a cell.  
   
He deserves some happiness, doesn’t he?  
   
Before he’s really aware of what he’s doing, he’s standing on his toes, reaching his arms around Steve’s back, burying his face into his neck. “Oh,” Steve says, with a little noise of surprise. “That – this is okay. This is cool, too.”  
   
His hand hovers over the back of Tony’s head, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Tony shuts his eyes. He sighs. Steve hugs back.  
   
He smells like aftershave and cheap shampoo. Strawberries. The ends of his hair tickle Tony’s face. “That’s nice,” Steve whispers. “This is nice, I mean.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees. It’s nice to hold an alpha. To hug an alpha. To not fear them snapping back, or trying to forcibly impregnate him.  
   
“We could go to bed,” Steve suggests, voice still quiet.  
   
A warm bed. No dreams. Steve.  
   
He nods against Steve’s shoulder, let’s him wrap an arm around his waist. The others will know by tomorrow. They’ll talk about it, disapprove. They’ll think Tony’s gone crazy, they’ll say Steve is taking advantage, but they don’t know. They don’t understand.  
   
There are no nightmares that night.  
   
   
They’re dancing.  
   
 _‘Her name was Lola… she was a showgirl…’_  
   
Steve is awkward, his steps all out of time. He evidently doesn’t know what he’s doing. “No, here,” Tony says, patiently, “you have to move your hips, it’s all in your hips – “  
   
“He looks like one of the things you get outside used car lots,” Natasha snorts, balancing a piece of popcorn on her tongue.  
   
“Hands _down,”_ Tony insists. “Take my hands. Hold them. Okay. Now you – what are you doing?! Jesus, Steve – “  
   
“I’m feeling it,” Steve says, with an intense look of focus on his face. “I’m – I’m going with the flow, Tony – “  
   
Tony laughs at how seriously he’s taking it. “Okay,” he says, letting Steve do an awkward samba, moving Tony’s arms at an off-beat rhythm, “fine, for now, but tomorrow we’re going to do it properly – “  
   
“Not on this floor you’re not,” Clint mutters, picking up a vase of wilted flowers on the coffee table.  
   
“Do we think Steve’s found his calling?” Bruce asks, wrapping one arm around Natasha’s shoulder.  
   
“Oof, shit, sorry – “ Steve blurts, narrowly avoiding Tony’s toes, “that woulda’ hurt, huh – “  
   
‘ _…at the copa… copa cabana…’_  
  
Steve twists his hips, tongue stuck between his lips, looking for all the world like a pre-schooler trying to do math, and Tony laughs, and laughs, and laughs, giddy, letting him spin Tony under his arm, wrap his arms around his front, dancing like stupid idiots, like people who don’t have responsibility, surrounded by friends.  
   
“Aww,” Natasha says, “do you think Steve has a crush?”  
   
There’s hair falling in his face, floppy. Tony pushes it back off his clear, wide brow, smiles up at him, all blue-eyed and breathless, as if he isn’t a super-soldier. Bucky never existed. Neither did Thanos. None of it ever happened. Tonight, Steve and Tony are just two idiots at a party, and they’re dancing, and for one long, glorious moment everything is –  
   
 _‘… they fell in love…’_  
  
“Wait,” Clint says.  
   
Tony giggles, throws back his head, because Steve is grinding into his back –  
   
“Hold on,” Clint says, “turn that off. Turn it off!” He spits, “Just – shut up! Listen!”  
   
Tony rounds on him, annoyed. He’s about to say, _what the hell is wrong with you?!,_ because Clint has ruined his happy moment, Tony was pretending and now it’s ruined. But Clint’s hand is outstretched, calling for silence, trembling, slightly.  
   
He can hear it, in the distance. Rumbling.  
   
Clint grabs the shotgun, cocks it. “Take him,” he says, “all of you, go. _Now.”_  
  
“Jesus, Clint, you’re not going to hold them off with a – “  
   
“Go. _Go.”_  
   
Tony’s feet feel numb. “Tony,” Steve is harrying, “c’mon, Tony, we’ve gotta – “  
   
He almost says, _but we were dancing._ He blinks, rapidly, stirs himself into action. “We’ve got to,” he agrees, taking Steve’s arm, following him out the back of house. The lights are blinding – dazzling, from the sky, the wind of the chopper cutting them up, buffeting them. Men dropping down from ladders, and screaming. _“Take down Banner!”_ He hears, ordered over a megaphone. “ _Banner is a loose canon. Romanoff can be killed, but try and save Rogers – and get that omega alive!”_  
   
Grit in his eyes. He’s aware they’re running. “Just like we discussed,” Steve is saying, “just like we talked about – “  
   
No one talked to him. No one’s discussed anything with him. “I don’t understand – “ he starts, but it’s swallowed a siren blearing, casting the barn in red through the cracks in the woods.  
   
“We’re splitting up,” Natasha says, brutal, fast. “We’re going to distract them. Steve – you stay with him. Hopefully, we’ll meet up with you after.”  
   
“No, _no!”_ Tony shakes his head, “Did you not hear them?! You two are _expendable,_ they won’t even take you in, they’ll just kill you, and – and Clint is back there – “  
   
“Clint is stalling, and you are _talking,”_ Natasha snarls. “Steve – take him. Head for the house. We all rendezvous there as soon as we can, okay?”  
   
“This way, Tony,” Steve urges, “c’mon, over here.”  
   
“No! No, I am not letting you – die for me, this is insane – “  
   
“You said it yourself,” Steve pleads, “I thought we’d have more time, but – we need you alive. Only you know how to move forward, Strange said we need you, we can’t – “  
   
The barn shakes, dust rains down. _They’re on the roof!_ Tony’s brain screams at him.  
   
“Done,” Natasha says, snatching Bruce’s arm. “In the car. Steve, hide, _now._ There’s no more time.”  
   
Oh, Jesus. This was their plan. Steve is pushing straw aside, pulling up a _hatch._ “Get in,” he hisses, “quickly – “  
   
Tony wants to say, this is insane. This won’t work. They’re going to find us, and we’re not even going to try and run?  
   
“Trust me,” Steve pleads, his eyes desperate. “Please, Tony, just trust me.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, jumps in. He’s falling, and falling, and falling. It’s far greater than he expected. And he hits the ground with a heavy ‘thunk’ and an ‘oof’. He barely has any warning before Steve follows suit, almost crushing him. “This is idiotic!” Tony hisses, hearing the hatch clang shut, echoing, somewhere far above. “We’re going to die!”  
   
Steve claps a hand over his mouth. “Stop talking,” he breathes into his ear. “Just – stop.”  
   
He’s sitting, wedged between Steve’s thighs, his back to his chest. One arm wrapped about his belly, the other his jaw, silencing him. In the dark, he can hear Steve isn’t even breathing; or at least, barely. Long, slow things that silently draw in air.  
   
The straw that cushioned their fall is scratching beneath them. This far down… Tony can barely hear anything from above. The rise and fall of Steve’s chest. _Do we have oxygen?_ He thinks. They’ll have infrareds. There’s no way they don’t find them. There’s no way Clint, Natasha, and Bruce actually distract them.  
   
 _I’m going back,_ Tony thinks numbly. _They’re going to take me back._  
   
Steve is still holding him, close to his chest. “Shh,” he’s breathing, although for some reason Tony thinks it’s more for Steve’s benefit than his; he thinks Steve isn’t so good at just sitting and waiting things out. “Steve,” Tony murmurs, amidst the cacophony above them, “Steve, you need to promise me.”  
   
“It’s alright, Tony. We have supplies, we’ll be okay. A week, two weeks – we can wait them out.”  
   
“No. No, you need to promise me that if they get me – “  
   
“They won’t.”  
   
“Okay, but if they do. Now, or ever, just – just – “  
   
Just what? Kill him? How could Steve do that, when they need him alive? When he has more use living and breathing, even if it is as a walking womb? Could Tony be that selfish, he thinks. Could he really condemn the universe to this path just because he doesn’t want to have to live in Standing’s world?  
   
“ – just don’t let them,” Tony finishes. “Promise me, you won’t let them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long disappearance -- this is hard to write, and I'm having a rough time. But your comments are much appreciated, it's super inspiring to hear what you guys like/dislike, and how you feel Tony and the other's characters come across!
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to know more about my situation (don't know why u would, but idk there u go)
> 
> I love all asks and comments! Interaction is great!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments help, because this is a hard story, and I need to know if people are actually interested!
> 
> How you feel Tony comes across (specifically: how does he seem to feel regarding his body changes, the new state of the world, his place, etc.) is very important to me. This is a very difficult topic to write about.
> 
> On more depressing news, if you would like to, please head onto my **[tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)**. I'm in a bit of a situation -- which is slowly getting better, touch wood, but at this moment any little helps.


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